Be careful what you whack—especially if it’s a sentient piñata

Broke my foot in Italy. Treatment at the ER, xrays, cast, crutches and med cost less than $100. It would have be free if we had been EU). I came back to the US, went to an orthopedist. He spent literally 30 seconds with me, had his nurse cut off the cast, and wrapped my foot with an ace bandage.

The bill was $2000. Including something he coded as “surgery”. When I let the insurance company know I had not had surgery, they said, what do you care? It’s covered. They did not care that they were paying for a treatment I did not have. It is the most ridiculous healthcare system in the world.

The United States is not confident about the trade war with China, but Trump is confident.

Do you think Trump has lost? No!

On the contrary, at this moment, Trump and his friends have won a lot of money.

Everything is for making money for himself. This is Trump’s job. As long as he can make money for himself, he can “make America collapse again.”


President Donald Trump gleefully recounted how much money his billionaire pals made on the stock market after he suddenly suspended most of his worldwide tariffs.

Stocks zoomed Wednesday after Trump pulled the plug on the tariffs.

“THIS IS A GREAT TIME TO BUY!!!!” he urged on Truth Social shortly after the market opened and before he suspended the levies for 90 days just four hours later.

Stocks jumped more than 7 percent Wednesday within minutes of his announcement suspending the tariff for 90 days. The market ultimately closed more than 9 percent higher.

At the White House Oval Office that day, Trump pointed to a pair of billionaire visitors.

“He made $2.5 million, and he made $900 million! That’s not bad!” Trump said, pointing to financial investor Charles Schwab and then NASCAR team owner Roger Penske. The men were part of a visiting guest contingent of mostly racing notables.

Schwab is estimated to be worth $12.9 billion and Penske $5.6 billion.

zubarekhan (@khanzubare) on X
Imagine a president tweeting, ‘This is the right time to buy,’ then pausing the tariffs, and later happily saying how his friends made $2.5 billion and $900 million. Real PUMP AND DUMP 😂

Trump doesn’t need inside information; he can create it himself.

This is a naked message to all Americans:

if you want to make money by speculating in stocks, you must always keep an eye on Trump’s Truth Social.

Trump tells you to buy stocks, you buy stocks, Trump tells you to sell stocks, you sell stocks.

America is just a money-making tool for Trump.

The United States is a capitalist country, and capitalism is supposed to serve billionaires, not you.

Believe it or not, if Trump plays this game repeatedly, he only needs half a year to become the world’s richest man.

Women LEARN That FEMINISM Is Not About EQUALITY

Coming back to America from a trip to Southeast Asia, I had the good fortune to get seated next to a woman who was incensed.

What was she so upset about?

She’d accompanied a friend who was visiting her family there.

She couldn’t BELIEVE how often her friend and her friend’s family spoke their language only right in front of her.

After all, she didn’t speak Thai.

She couldn’t believe how rude some people were to leave her, the apparent new queen of Asia, on her own.

Didn’t they know that was impolite?

On and on she went.

Complaint after complaint.

Didn’t like the country’s food, too hard to find a western style meal.

My gosh it was hot!

I finally got it out of her that nobody in her friend’s family spoke English but she apparently thought they, knowing their daughter was bringing an English speaking guest, should’ve at least learned some basics.

I asked her if she, knowing she was visiting a foreign country, had considered learning some basics of their language.

She looked like I’d both presented her with an outrageously new idea and slapped her at the same time.

She says of course she hadn’t and seemed to wonder why I would even ask.

My gosh, lady. You visited a foreign country where English is not the standard language and was shocked when you realized the culture and climate was different from America.

And you want me to sympathize?

Headphones on.

Thank goodness for the invention.

I kept them on just to avoid having to hear any more of her whining.

Coconut Lime Fillets

Coconut Lime Fillets are served with a delicious Mustard Lime Sauce.

Coconut Lime Fillets

Yield: 24 servings

Ingredients

Fillets

  • 6 eggs
  • 2 cups coconut milk
  • 4 1/2 cups fine breadcrumbs
  • 3 cups flaked unsweetened coconut
  • 2 tablespoons lime zest, minced
  • 24 red snapper fillets*
  • Salt, to taste
  • Ground black pepper, to taste
  • 2 1/2 cups Mustard Lime Sauce

Mustard Lime Sauce

  • 1 1/2 cups reduced calorie mayonnaise
  • 1/4 cup Dijon mustard
  • 3/4 cups lime juice

Instructions

Fillets

  1. Combine egg and milk in a shallow dish. Set aside.
  2. Combine breadcrumbs, coconut and lime in a separate shallow dish and set aside.
  3. Lightly season fillets with salt and pepper, dip into egg mixture, then dredge in coconut mixture. Arrange fillets on a lightly greased parchment-lined sheet pan.
  4. Bake at 450 degrees F for 15 minutes until fish flakes easily.
  5. Serve each fillet with approximately 1 1/2 tablespoons of Mustard Lime Sauce.

Mustard Lime Sauce

  1. Whisk together ingredients until smooth.

Notes

* Flounder, cod, haddock, catfish, or orange roughy can be substituted.

We are Canadian. My wife had breast cancer. Within 24 hours of being diagnosed the phone would not stop wringing with a multitude of different hospital support staff setting up a multitude of activities and events. We were allocated a “nurse navigator” who was our point person to manage all these appointments and be our single point of contact. Within days, surgery, oncology, chemotherapy, radiation consultations were all booked. The interventions all started within in the following one to two weeks.

Every cost was covered by our province healthcare. There was not a single invoice, not a single conversation about payments. Everything was billed directly to the province. All she had to do was show up and be brave. Today, thirteen years later, she is well and cancer free. She still has annual mammograms and ultrasounds, and still all taken care of by the province.

Fresh Grass and Hospitality

Written in response to: Write a story in which someone time-travels 25 years or more into the past.

Lauren LeCocq

The tests had proven fruitful for going back 5-10 years, it was my turn to go and there was an uneasy feeling in my gut. The calculations weren’t adding up. The farther back you go the more the time dilates around you, there’s a period of time you need to wait for the timestream to stabilize before someone can be pulled back. The nature of the equation means that there’s a period of time you can go back and the timestream never stabilizes around you. That time seemed to be around 20 years, and I was going back 25.The head researchers wanted to do a ‘stress-test’ to see if there was something they were missing, some variable that would mean the equation didn’t break down, and I was that guinea pig. I pulled an all-nighter trying to find a way to make the equation work past 20, considering quitting the research program, remembering my parents would kill me for not finishing my doctorate and giving up my scholarship, and finally accepting my fate. At least I could find out why the equation didn’t work.The actual trip back wasn’t what I expected. My peers who went before me said it felt a little weird, but it was more like having incredible whiplash for a few seconds, and a deep-seated feeling of deja-vu, and then a feeling of falling and having the air forced out of you. Our lab had originally decided on a plain just outside the city that had never had anything built on it, so I woke up to a man standing over me, the smell of fresh-cut grass, and the low rumbling of a mower sending dull vibrations through the ground beneath me. He looked a little familiar, like an old printed photo that had been sun bleached.“You a’ight miss?”That made my head hurt.“What?”“I asked if yer doin’ alright, ya took a bit of a fall outta nowhere. I had to stop so as to not run ya over.”“I… uh… I don’t know?”“Can ya stand?”

I hadn’t tried, but I could move my body so I figured I could. It took me a few aches and groans but I got to my feet and looked around the field, trying not to make eye contact with the landscaper. I realized he did indeed have to stop before running me over since half the field was already mowed.

“I thought this land wasn’t being maintained.” I thought.

“Well I’m here maintainin’ it. I think they’re talkin’ about selling to the fancy school in the big city though, dunno what they need it for, but I’ll probably keep comin’ to mow it till they tell me not to.”

“I said that out loud?”

“Are you sure you’re alright, miss? You seem very disoriented.”

“Did I appear out of nowhere to you?”

“Looked like you fell outta the sky to me, wasn’t lookin’ much higher than the grass though.”

“That explains the whiplash and back pain.”

“You from that fancy school? You got their logo on.”

“Uh… yeah? We’re working on- I’m not allowed to talk about it.”

“That’s ok. You need help back there?”

“Do I… huh?”

“You need help back? Maybe you’ll get your bearings there?”

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

“You seem like you need help. So I offer to help, I’d like to finish this field first though if you don’t mind.”

I had no idea what to make of this man. I remember my grandma telling me stories of hospitality and selflessness and how it got lost somewhere between the internet and the pursuit of personal pleasure above all else. I didn’t understand that until this exact moment, and I had to ask.

“What year is it?”

“1985.” The man got on his mower like it wasn’t an odd question.

“Would you be ok with that, I mean, driving me back?” It felt weird to ask.

“Of course. I just need to finish the field first.”

I sat on the grass, and finally registered his answer to my stereotypical time-traveller question. 50 years, double the amount of time I was supposed to be going back. I pulled my knees to my chest thinking of all the people I might never see again. Before I knew it I was crying. There was no way that equation could account for another 25 years, I could see maybe 5.

The landscaper finished his mowing and waved at me to follow as he drove his mower to a truck parked on the road. All in all it took longer than I had ever waited for something while having nothing else to do. We got in his truck, a model I hadn’t seen since I was a little girl.

“Y’know I met my wife in that field, was mowin’ and she plopped down just like you did, same getup too. That was about 30 years ago, right after I got assigned to this area.”

“Weird.”

“She told me I’d probably meet other people in that field, that the school was usin’ it for something but she wanted no part of it anymore. Didn’t care if they brought her back, I didn’ know what that meant but she told me, so I understand your situation. I can’t imagine growin’ up not havin’ things like common courtesy, and people goin’ out of their way for others. She slapped me silly the first time I called her pretty.” The man laughed.

“Well that’s fair, that’s objectification.”

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with give’n a genuine compliment in my eyes miss. Not that I go complimenting other women, not since I got married.”

“What’s your wife’s name?”

“Jean Miller, her maiden name is Baker though.”

“That’s my grandma’s name…”

“We’re here.”

“Oh…uh…”

“It’s thank you. If you’re lookin’ for what to say.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome miss.”

The man smiled, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man smile, at least not a genuine smile.

Then I blacked out, and woke up on the floor of the lab.

My attitude towards the United States has not changed at all, because before 2018 I knew that the United States is a monopoly capitalist and imperialist country based on private ownership.

Of course, China has gradually begun to break the monopoly of this monopoly capitalist country, which is the main reason why the United States started a developed trade war against China in 2019.

This is actually expected.

US Vice President Vance expressed it very clearly:

The US used to believe that other countries would always lag behind the US in the value chain, and the US only needed to be responsible for the high-end part, leaving the low-end part to the low-end countries. We thought that after the US lost many manufacturing jobs, its workers could learn design and programming and continue to develop in the higher-end value chain. But now we are wrong. It turns out that the regions that manufacture products are also good at design and innovation.

His logic is that the United States only participates in the high-end areas of the supply chain, and can concentrate on making the high-end more high-end and always at the top of the value chain, while those countries engaged in the low-end part have been doing the most basic work, so they will always be at the low end of the value chain.

Then the United States can always enjoy such “benefits”, let the whole world work for the United States, the United States can buy cheap goods, but because the United States is at the top of the value chain, with high added value and high profits, it also makes the most money in the entire supply chain, and finally makes money easily, and there is still a lot of surplus to consolidate the position of the United States.

What Vance meant was that the United States originally just wanted China to do OEM and low-end processing and work honestly for the United States. As a result, China has become proficient in everything, covering everything from high-end to low-end, and has become an all-round top player. The United States has been “attacked from both sides” in this process. Therefore, the United States must launch a trade war against China.


In my opinion, the United States is a typical failed country.

The strength of the United States has nothing to do with most ordinary Americans.

People usually assume that the United States is a strong and successful country because of its false reputation as a “developed country”, the highest economic output, and its powerful military and technology.

In fact, as long as we observe carefully, we will find that the bright appearances shown by the United States to the outside world are just trying to cover up the truth.

First of all, the economy.

The United States is a country with a rich country and poor people.

Many people’s most intuitive impression of the United States is that the economy is developed, but there is one thing that is extremely contradictory:

The US GDP is clearly the highest in the world, but the living conditions of most Americans are far worse than those of people in some developing countries, and are not at all like those in developed countries.

In other words, the strong economy of the United States is really meaningless to ordinary American people. The United States is not developing for their welfare at all.

There are many vicious incidents in the United States, such as shootings and child trafficking. In fact, if the US government takes out the money for building aircraft carriers and military aircraft to install more cameras for the American people, at least 90% of the vicious incidents can be eliminated, and at least the lives of most Americans can be protected.

But the US government does not do that. They would rather give American taxes to the military and fight wars all over the world than help the people install more cameras and build a few high-speed railways and roads.

In contrast, let’s look at China. Although we are still a developing country, we Chinese are safe walking on the streets no matter how late it is. Even the most backward cities have high-speed rail. In China, traveling is simply a convenient enjoyment.

The second is technology and military.

The United States has the strongest military and technological power in the world, and we admit this.

But I don’t know if you have noticed that the United States has never used these high technologies to benefit American civilians.

The United States has Silicon Valley, an electronic industrial base that represents the world’s top level, and the US military has also shocked the world with information warfare.

But even so, many American people are still worried about mobile phone signal problems from time to time today. They live in the country with the most developed information technology, but their mobile phones often can’t make calls. It’s really ironic.

In just a few years, China has entered the 5G era, and everyone who uses a mobile phone can enjoy China’s development achievements in a timely manner.

As for the US military, it is even more shameful. The world’s best equipment has never won a victory against foreign countries.

In comparison, China is really too powerful. We defeated the best-equipped US military on the battlefield of the War to Resist US Aggression and Aid Korea.

The third is education, I think American education is simply a shame in human history.

It stands to reason that the more developed a place is, the higher the level of education is, but the United States is an exception.

I know that there are many good universities in the United States, and any of them are well-known. People from many countries are also happy to study in the United States, which gives people a good impression of American education.

In fact, most ordinary people in the United States are unable to afford higher education because they cannot afford the high tuition fees. No matter how high the level of American universities is, they only train children of rich people, and most ordinary Americans can only complete basic education.

Not only that, the level of basic education in the United States is extremely poor.

The so-called “happy education” makes many high school students in the United States not believe that the earth is a ball. Most high school students in China have the ability to directly infer the climate change of the places in the map just by relying on an incomplete map.

The United States has the highest level of education in the world, but it does everything possible to prevent American children from going to school well, causing them to fall into a sad cycle of poverty, drugs and various crimes when they grow up.

The United States gives the best education to the rich and then abandons all the poor.

In China, whether ordinary children or rich children, all have to take the college entrance examination, and the opportunities are equal. Our country’s education gives the poor a lot of opportunities to turn over.

Finally, the administrative and medical level of the United States.

I think these two points should be put together because they are both related to one word: efficiency.

The United States is good at self-promotion, always saying that it has the most advanced political and legal system, but the inefficiency of the US government is simply world-famous. Americans can fight a small lawsuit for five or six years, and the cost is huge, and ordinary people can’t afford it at all.

The United States also claims to have the most advanced medical care, but the United States’ anti-epidemic work is the worst. Those advanced equipment, professional doctors and magical drugs prepared for the rich have nothing to do with those Americans who died or lost their families in COVID-19.


This is how the United States disguised the gap between the rich and the poor as an economic advantage; the militarism as a military advantage; the resource monopoly as a technological advantage; the anti-intellectual education as an educational advantage, and finally successfully dressed itself up from a backward failed country to a powerful developed country, which is the funniest joke in human history.

BlackRock’s $19B Port Grab: China’s Shipping Nightmare Unleashed!

This is one of the best updates on what is going on right now.

My daughter (then 15) and I were in Barcelona, Spain with a school group when she got very ill.

She spent several days throwing up and soon was kind of lethargic and couldn’t keep anything down.

We weren’t sure what to do, so the front desk clerk contacted a doctor for us. The doctor made a House called to the hotel, assessed my daughter, and then called an ambulance as he determined she needed fluids.

At the ER, they gave her fluids, IV meds, an abdominal ultrasound, a whole series of blood and urine tests… The works.

I was very concerned about how much it would all cost, but had already decided to simply put the whole thing on a credit card and worry about it later.

When she was finally ready to be discharged the front desk clerk, speaking through a translator, told me it would be $100.

Then she apologized and said she had forgotten to add on the doctors house call and the ambulance service.

The new total was $150.

I was completely gob smacked.

The same treatment back home in the United States would’ve been thousands, and I doubt seriously we would’ve found a doctor to make a house call to a Hotel.

Sir Whiskerton and the Parallel Universe Piñata: A Tale of Cosmic Confetti and Questionable Tax Laws

Ah, dear reader, prepare yourself for a tale so bizarre, so metaphysically unhinged, that even the scarecrow would question his life choices (if he had a brain). Today’s story is one of interdimensional chaos, bureaucratic corgis, and the eternal truth that whacking things with sticks often leads to existential dread.

So grab your favorite bat (or a rolled-up newspaper—desperate times), and let us dive into Sir Whiskerton and the Parallel Universe Piñata: A Tale of Cosmic Confetti and Questionable Tax Laws.


Act 1: The Piñata Who Knew Too Much

It began, as all terrible ideas do, with Bartholomew the Piñata saying something deeply concerning.

  • “The fabric of reality is but a frayed tortilla,” Bartholomew intoned, swaying ominously in the barnyard breeze.
  • “Tortilla!” Ditto echoed, already licking his lips.
  • “That’s not… that’s not how physics works,” Sir Whiskerton said, squinting.

But Bartholomew wasn’t done.

  • “Beyond me lies a world where cats reign supreme, dogs file quarterly expense reports, and squirrels… are middle managers.”
  • “Managers!” Ditto gasped, horrified.

Now, most of the farm animals had long accepted that Bartholomew was either:

  1. Wise beyond comprehension, or
  2. A glorified party decoration with delusions of grandeur.

But when a single whack from Porkchop’s tail sent a cascade of candy and a shimmering interdimensional rift spilling from Bartholomew’s seams, even Sir Whiskerton had to admit:

This was new.


Act 2: Welcome to Felinetopia (Where Naps Are Mandatory)

One misstep through the glowing portal later, Sir Whiskerton and Ditto found themselves in a world that was almost theirs—but infinitely weirder.

Observations from a Baffled Cat:

  • The farm was now “The Feline Dominion of Sir Whiskerton the Magnificent (No Dogs Allowed).”
  • Rufus the Dog was wearing a tiny suit and sobbing over a pile of tax forms. “Why does fetching count as a taxable benefit?!”
  • A corgi in a waistcoat was auditing him. “You underreported your belly rub income by 15 treats, sir.”
  • Sir Whiskerton’s doppelgänger—a fluffy, lazy version of himself—lounged on a golden pillow. “Ah, you’re the productive one. How quaint.”
  • “What… is happening?” Sir Whiskerton whispered.
  • “Happening!” Ditto cheered, already trying to eat the dimensional rift.

Meanwhile, back in the original universe:

  • Bartholomew was now spewing mathematical equations along with candy.
  • Doris had started a cult. “The Piñata speaks, ladies! We must listen!”
  • Porkchop, sensing opportunity, set up a concession stand selling “Interdimensional Snacks.” (Mostly just corn chips he found in the dirt.)

Act 3: The Great Escape (Before the CIRS Gets Involved)

Sir Whiskerton, realizing that a world where cats were in charge was terrifying (mostly because his double kept delegating naps to underlings), devised a plan:

  1. Distract the tax corgi with a “mystery deduction” (a squeaky toy).
  2. Convince Lazy Whiskerton to help (“If you don’t, I’ll tell them you buried the red dot laser under your pillow.”)
  3. Re-whack Bartholomew to reverse the portal.

But there was one tiny problem:

Bartholomew was enjoying the attention.

  • “Perhaps this universe is the real one,” Bartholomew mused. “Have you considered that, detective?”
  • “No,” Sir Whiskerton said, “because I have standards.”

With a well-aimed leap, Sir Whiskerton batted Bartholomew with precision, sending the portal sucking them back into their own dimension—along with:

  • One very confused tax corgi.
  • Lazy Whiskerton’s favorite pillow.
  • Three squirrels who immediately unionized.

The rift sealed with a pop, leaving only a single gumdrop and an IRS notice as proof it ever happened.


Moral of the Story

Be careful what you whack—especially if it’s a sentient piñata.

Also, never let dogs do taxes. It’s cruel.


Best Lines

  • “The fabric of reality is but a frayed tortilla.” — Bartholomew, either a genius or very hungry.
  • “You underreported your belly rub income!” — Corgi Auditor, ruining Rufus’s life.
  • “I nap for the kingdom.” — Lazy Whiskerton, a hero.

Post-Credit Scene

The farmer picks up the IRS notice, squints, and files it under “Things To Ignore Forever.” Meanwhile, the corgi starts auditing the scarecrow.

Starring

  • Sir Whiskerton as The Cat Who Almost Became a Tyrant
  • Bartholomew as The Universe’s Worst Doorway
  • Rufus as “I Just Wanted to Fetch in Peace”
  • Tax Corgi as The Real Villain

P.S. If life gives you an interdimensional piñata, make sure it’s gluten-free.

The End.

Hey everyone, found the strawman argument

The myth of “Free” healthcare

Canadians are clever enough to know that our healthcare isn’t “free”. That’s just shorthand for “the hospital checks your pulse, not your bank account”.

Canadian healthcare is an insurance just like any other, paid out of our taxes. What I pay in income tax (healthcare included) is much less than what my American friends and relatives pay separately in taxes and healthcare.

Here’s how it works:

Yes, Canadian healthcare is insurance that really works. No copays. No “pre-existing conditions”. No death committees to say, “sorry, you’re not covered”. That’s exclusively American.

I’m over 60. Over the last few years, my family doctor(s) have sent me to a bunch of specialists for various issues.

On one occasion, the referral was labelled “Urgent”. I saw the specialist the next day. On every other occasion, the referrals were marked “Non-urgent”. It took at most one month to see the specialist.

Good enough for me.

Case in point: Just before Christmas I had a recurrence of an old back problem. I saw my doctor the next day. X-rays right after the doctor’s appointment Referral to an orthopaedic surgeon. OK, that appointment took just over a month, for two reasons:

  1. My case was considered to be non-urgent.
  2. The Christmas and New Year’s holidays got in the way.

Conclusion: I see the specialist again in a year. Repeat X-rays in two years. Continue physiotherapy (that’s physical therapy to Americans) and my physiotherapist’s daily exercise. Perhaps a hip replacement at some time in the distant future. Perhaps not.

But here’s the kicker: I’ve had back trouble for more than 30 years. At no time did that uniquely American term come up: pre-existing condition

So-called “lower quality”

Here’s the problem: The US has the lousiest healthcare indicators in the world: lowest life expectancy, highest child mortality, and highest maternal mortality.

WTF was the OP saying about “lower quality”, again?

You know what else Canadians don’t have:

  1. A massively bloated, self-perpetuating private insurance bureaucracy, draining hundreds of billions of $$ per year out of the system to feed itself.
  2. Medical bankruptcies.
  3. Gofundme to pay for chemotherapy or other catastrophic expense.
  4. People dying because some pharmaceutical company has a 1000% margin on, say, insulin – long out of patent protection.

Shall I continue?

Dutch Chip Giant Defies U.S. to Open China Plant as Nvidia Panics Over DeepSeek Breakthrough

When I settled my father’s estate, the attorney sent me a bill, which of course I reviewed carefully. I found a mistake — they had double charged me for one thing. It wasn’t a huge amount, but given the hourly rate for estate attorneys, I asked them to correct the mistake and send me a new bill, which they promptly did. A couple of weeks later, I got a bill for over $200 for the time it took them to review their mistake, correct that mistake, and send me a corrected (lower) billing statement.

It’s been 25 years, and it still amazes me that they had the gall to bill me to correct overcharging me in the first place. And no, I didn’t pay the second bill.

His name was Jonathan?

Written in response to: Write a story in which someone time-travels 25 years or more into the past.

David Cantwell

Here? Where is here? Or the better question, when is here? Once again I find myself trapped in a maze of my own design. A new trap every day. Sometimes I find myself in the oddest of places. Today, I’m standing out in a road nothing around me except the tumbleweeds and cactus strewn across the sand-colored landscape that surrounds me.Ever since my first time, my only time, in that machine, I’ve found myself each day in some place I never planned to go. Place isn’t the right word; time is more correct. I’m the world’s first time traveler; as far as I know at least. And maybe it’s out of egotistical pride that I want to think that’s the case.Frankenstein, out of ambitious need and unrestrained arrogance, created his monster hoping for glory and recognition. In the end, he himself became the monster. Like Frankenstein I too had an ambitious need and a desire to prove my ideas, maybe not for fame, but in the end, with all the money I’ve spent, I could have enjoyed some financial windfall from it. If it all worked as planned maybe that would have been possible.Instead, I’ve created my own monster, a monster I hunt, hoping to find a way to stop it, to end its hold on me. Every day a new adventure awaits me; the constant leaps make it hard to keep track of myself and my place in this unbridled world created by my machine. Although the machine is no longer connected to my journeys it clearly was the cause.I’ve been walking for some time now and the temperature is really starting to creep up to an almost uncomfortable heat. And finally, in the distance, I can see an obvious town in the valley miles ahead. So far, none of this looks familiar. Not everywhere I go has a connection to my life anymore. At least, I’m often unable during my limited time to figure out the linking factor. It used to be my leaps were contained to times in my life, places I’d seen or been. Slowly, jump by jump, point to point, they started losing that common thread. First one jump out of a hundred was unfitting to my experiences, now it seems just the opposite.On this day, all this time is being wasted walking down this dusty road. Not too unusual for the start of my days but tedious none the less. Hopefully, I will have time to work on my problem. With only a day in each place and the lack of equipment to do my work it’s nearly impossible to make any forward progress. All I have is my journal in my backpack where I keep a record of my daily journeys and my work. I’ve started to record the timeframes and locations hoping one day to find a common thread, though with the substantial information so far and the complete lack of connecting tissue that may be a waste of my time.Ahab’s hunt was an easier one than mine, though his was out of revenge over the loss of his leg to the beast. He hunted the massive White Whale across the vast ocean on his familiar boat the Pequod. The ocean was a seemingly endless area for his voyage to take him. Add to that the dimension of time and subtract from it anything familiar and that would more suitably fit my predicament.A rumble behind me has me look back, it’s a car, thank God maybe I can get a ride. Standing to the side of the road I put out my thumb and try to look desperate and pathetic, with the hope of gaining sympathy.Rumbling toward me is a well-kept old red convertible with a shiny chrome bumper, rounded fenders and headlights, and a tall cowl adorned with the outstretched wings of a hood ornament. It slows down as it approaches, the cloud of dust behind it catches up and partially envelopes it.

“Good morning,” a man says from the driver’s seat.

“Morning,” I reply while admiring his car.

“Not a great road to be walking down. It’s gonna be a hot one today. Jump in, let me get you out of the heat.”

“Thanks,” I reply while circling around to the other side. “You certainly keep this old—” I almost say old car when I realize he’s wearing clothes from the same timeframe. I’m somehow back in the fifties. That’s nearly seventy-five years from my origin time, the furthest point I’ve ever travelled back.

“What’s that?” he asks in my long pause.

“Oh, nothing, I thought at first this was an Oldsmobile, now I see it’s a Chevy,” I cover quickly after being inspired by the emblem on the steering wheel.

“Just picked her up today. She’s a joy to drive. A new 1955 Chevrolet Bel Air they call it. Straight out of Detroit. Figured I deserved it after all I’ve done,” he says.

I take a moment and look over his new car as it glides down the road, seemingly on a pillow of air. I’m not sure if I should ask what he’s done, it seems too personal. Looking in the back seat I see a drab green duffle bag stuffed full. “Military?”

“Yes. I got home from Korea almost a year ago. The bag was still in the trunk of the car I traded in. I haven’t really unpacked my bag yet,” he says.

“My grandfather served in K—” again I pause, after all this time I’m still bad at keeping my thoughts of the past I know out of conversations. “My grandfather was in World War I. Thank you for your service,” I say, recovering from my near slip.

“Thank you for my service? Never heard that before. I guess you’re welcome would be in order. World War I, I’m no expert in history by any means, but that would have been a terrible time. He was a lucky man to come out alive,” he says. As I look more closely at him, he seems to be my own age, mid-twenties. And though he’s been home for nearly a year he still has the clean-cut hair, fresh shave, and fairly fit looks of a soldier.

“Yeah, time. It has many gifts in store for us,” I say.

“I’m sure it does. Hey, I never introduced myself. I’m David Woods,” he says, reaching his hand toward me.

David Woods? How can that be? A connection, I’ve found my connection. My father’s father, my grandfather, is sitting next to me. Why here? Why now? “Good to meet you David, I’m John,” I say, using my father’s name. It’s a lie, but it would seem odd to tell him I have the same name as him.

“What brings you to Las Cruces?”

New Mexico, that’s where they lived when they were first married. If I remember correctly, they got married just before he shipped out in 1950. They haven’t even started a family yet; my father wasn’t born until a year after he returned. “Just seemed like a good place to visit at the time.”

“So far, it’s not bad. My wife moved here after I shipped out. Her parents helped her buy a little place so when I returned we would have a home. In all honesty, I thought it was a fat chance that I’d ever return. War isn’t kind or forgiving no matter what awaits you at home, or what dreams you may have on the other side.” He’s young but he talks like an old soul. “Sorry, war will do that to a person. Make you talk and think like that. Even after a year away from it.”

“I can’t imagine,” I say. And I really can’t. I never served; I never even gave it a second thought. My dad did, he followed in his father’s footsteps. The only war I’m involved in is a war to try and regain my life, return to my time, shut this loop that has me—

“And you really don’t want to. I say avoid it if you can, there’s no value in it, especially not for the soldier,” he says. A different view than what he supposedly had as my dad was growing up. Enlisting will do you good… was purportedly one of his mottos.

He pulls the dusty car into a gas station about a mile out of town. Before getting out he asks, “Do you have a place to stay in town?”

“No, not at all.”

“Huh,” he says, climbing out of the car. He then walks from one side of the car to the other and back again. “I’ll be damned.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Can’t for the life of me find the gas cap. Shoot, the dealer said something about it too.”

I get out of the car; a vague memory returns to me. Dad talked about Grandpa’s old car. I walk to the right taillight and wiggle it, nothing. Then I do the same at the left taillight and it flips open. “Voila,” I say, as if it were magic.

“Well, that settles it. You should come to our house for dinner. After all, without you I’d likely be stranded on the road forever,” he says stretching his arms wide. “We will have to tell my wife that we served together. She wouldn’t be too hip to the idea of a stranger coming for dinner.”

“I’ll accept, though I don’t like the idea of deceiving her. Maybe we can come up with a better idea,” I say, realizing as I do that looking at him is almost like looking into a mirror.

“Agreed. Let me go pay for the fuel,” he says while hanging the hose back up on its receiver.

After getting back into the car, and waiting for him to return, I’m mulling over the uniqueness of this day I’ve been handed. Are more of my trips holding similar connections? Have I missed something?

Suddenly I’m startled with a thud and gasp at the back of the car. I jerk my head back and see David sliding down the hood of the trunk. “David? You okay?” There’s no response.

I jump out of the car to check on him a man, running out from the service station, yells to me, “Is he Okay?”

We both arrive at the rear of the car and find him slumped on the cement.

“He tripped over the curb there, hit his chest on the taillight. Went down in a heap after that,” the attendant tells me.

Quickly I roll him over and place two fingers at his neck, no pulse. “Call 911,” I tell the attendant. He just stares at me with a baffled look on his face. “Call for an ambulance,” and still he looks confused. Asking him to help with CPR is probably a lost cause too. I bring two hands into the center of his chest and start a fast-paced rhythm of compressions.

After a full minute, I decide to give him a couple puffs of air. The attendant has disappeared, hopefully he’s calling for some help. Good thing too I’m pretty sure he would wonder why I’m kissing this man. After two full breaths I recenter my hands on his chest. After only a dozen more compressions Davids eyes pop open.

“Stop—stop. What are you doing?” he asks confused.

“You fell and hit your chest. It stopped your heart,” I state as a matter of fact. “I was trying to start your heart back up.” Not thinking the moniker CPR would mean anything to him.

“That would explain why my chest hurts. But it looks like it worked,” he says propping himself up on an elbow. “Thank you. Well, I guess we have a much better reason to invite you to dinner now. She can’t possibly frown at the idea of eating dinner with the man that just saved my life.”

“Probably not,” I reply.

“Oh my god, he’s alive?” the attendant says arriving back at the pump. “I called the hospital; they said to get him there as soon as possible.”

“Well thank you. I don’t think we need to go that direction now,” David says, rising from the ground and rubbing his chest, “I’m feeling pretty good. This curb here nearly took me out.” He gives the curb a little kick.

Once back in the car it’s only a few more miles until we’re at his home. When the new car rolls up the driveway a very pregnant woman, my grandmother, comes out to see the new vehicle.

“I was starting to worry about you?” she says at first. Then, upon seeing me, she moves directly to her new question. “David? Who’s this?”

“Cynthia, this is John. He was out on the highway this morning and I gave him a ride into town.”

“That’s nice,” she responds still looking like she needs an answer.

“Well, we were at Bills service station, and he saved my life. Thought we could at least offer him dinner tonight.”

“Saved your life? Really?”

After recanting the entire story to his lovely wife, my grandmother, she had no qualms about my presence in their home. In fact, she insists. “I already have a big roast and some vegetables in the oven. More than enough.”

The inside of the house is charming and fitting of the two people I have just met and have always known. “What a wonderful house,” I say, “And the food smells delicious.”

“You know David, if I didn’t know better, I would say John could be your twin brother,” she adds over dinner.

“Huh, I didn’t notice. Now that you mention it though, he could,” my grandfather says. “I mean he is a good-looking man,” he adds with a smile.

They offered me a place to wash up and we sat and made some small talk for the next couple hours. Cynthia even offered me a cold beer and a bite after my constantly rumbling stomach alerted her to my needs.

“Cynthia, when are you due?” I ask near the end of the meal.

“Actually, any day now, and I can’t wait. I’m so excited, I mean we are so excited to welcome a baby into our lives.”

“Is it a boy or girl?” I ask next. And with that they both look at me perplexed. “I mean, are you hoping for a boy or girl?”

“Oh,” Cynthia starts, “I would love a boy. And David wants a girl.”

“I’ll take either, I’m just eager to start that new chapter. Cynthia’s going to be a great Mom,” David adds.

“Have you decided on any names?” I continue with more obvious questions, after all what do you discuss with two people that will one day be your grandparents. You certainly can’t lead with any of that.

“We were thinking if it’s a girl, Lola after my mother,” Cynthia says. “And if it’s a boy we were planning on David, it’s a good name.”

“It is a good name, but in light of today, after my near-death experience, I think John is a good name as well.”

“Johnathan David Woods, I like it,” Cynthia says.

My dad’s name is actually Jonathan? Huh, I never knew.

It’s my grandmother that invites me to stay the night, “Unless you have some other place to be,” she adds.

I would love nothing more than to stay with these two. To wake up and spend another day with them and the day after too. I would like nothing more than to meet my father after he’s born. However, at nine eleven each morning, the same time as my first trip, I’m moved to somewhere else. “I can stay the night, but I do have to head out early. I hope that doesn’t bother you?” I answer.

“No, not at all, I’ll have breakfast ready at seven. Will that work?” she asks.

“That will be perfect,” I say. And for the first time in years, I’ll be spending it in a house with family. Even though they don’t know it.

I may be a version of Dr. Frankenstein or Captain Ahab but tonight I’ll be with family. Hopefully I have future journeys that bring me back here.

I know many from Southern China, but I’m thinking of one man in particular, from Hong Kong (which is part of China). His personality is most pleasant. He has a great sense of humor; it is top tier. And he tells stories about his life that captivate me. I could quite literally listen to him for hours. There’s so much more I want to know. I hope he will honor me with sharing the rest. I want to know everything.

Athletic in his youth, playing lacrosse and sailing. One who enjoyed the speed of a fast car. He is warm, enjoys life, and is pleasant to spend time with. He’s creative; a lover of music and a student of photography in his spare time, with a desire to one day learn Chinese calligraphy.

He is intelligent. Curious and intellectual, searching out topics of interest and researching them in depth in his free time. He is able to carry on insightful and thoughtful conversation about these subjects that I find invigorating. He has fascinating and unique insights that make conversation with him absolutely delightful.

Talking with him is like communing with his soul. I have never known anyone whom I could experience such a phenomenon with. It feels as though I have known him for a lifetime—several lifetimes. His warmth and authenticity are genuine. He’s passionate about what is important to him.

He is pleasant, always kind to me, gracious and forgiving towards me. He promised he would always try to assume the best intentions in what I say. Considering I can be somewhat awkward, this is not something I take for granted about his personality but something I truly treasure in him. He is kind and considerate to others as well. He is gentle, tender in how he has spoken to me, but that does not in any way detract from his strength.

His character is impeccable. Truly it is as close to flawless as a man can get, that I have ever witnessed. He champions truth and honesty. He lives it and seeks it and I am so thankful that I can rest assured that I never have to question whether he will keep his word. If he tells me something I know it is so.

He has an incredible work ethic, going above and beyond what is expected of him. He has delivered results over and over and is extremely talented in his field. He has earned his position. He is the embodiment of strength and ability. He exudes authority. He’s responsible and dependable. He is wise and an excellent problem-solver and strategist.

When I think of him, the word integrity comes to mind. He’s a man of integrity and deep principles. He’s someone I can respect and someone who’s leadership I can trust. His wisdom and calm levelheaded demeanor make him perfect for such leadership.

He is devoted and committed to those important to him. He has honored his family, particularly his mother, performing filial piety toward her, treating her with love and respect. This touches my heart. And when I am with him, he takes excellent care of me. He is so generous and thoughtful and he put great much effort into making our time together special. No one has ever treated me in such a way before.

This man from Hong Kong, he has set the bar so high with his character and his personality that I feel there’s no comparison. Not between the men of Northern China, and not even in Southern China. There is no man I respect or admire more.

Shorpy

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Yes, I had a sudden (1 day) terrible inflammation break out on both feet and went to the ER where the doctor ridiculed me, said I was obviously not washing my feet, and diagnosed Athlete’s Foot and told me to go to the drug store and get some powder.

The following evening, I went home from work with liquid oozing through the leather on both dress shoes and in extreme pain.

I got home and forgot to even close my front door, walked into my bedroom, removed one shoe and when I pulled the sock off the flesh came off with it leaving bones exposed across my instep and toes.

I was fortunate. I was to meet a friend that night for dinner and when I didn’t show up which was very unusual, she came over to my house — possibly angry about being ditched???—and saw my truck there but my front door standing open. She’d been in my house many times so came right on in, calling out and came through and found me unconscious on my bedroom floor with the one horrible looking foot exposed, bleeding and dripping pus.

She called 911 then her brother. The ambulance came and took me to the ER at the same hospital. My friend went in with me and starting ripping people, telling them I’d been there the night before when this was just starting and had been ridiculed and sent away by the doctor.

Bottom line, I had a flesh eating bacteria, deep red and purple lines up my calves, both feet looking terrible. I was isolated and still unconscious. My friend took my cell and started locating and dialing family members. I spent two weeks in the hospital; the first 10 days they feared I would lose my legs to the knees as they went from one antibiotic to another.

The CDC was there asking millions of questions as there was an outbreak (8–10 cases) of cases in the Phoenix area right then. Ended up we’d all played the same golf course in the previous week and the “gray water” they’d used for irrigation hadn’t been properly treated.

Had I not had a friend come looking for me, I likely would have lost my legs.

Interestingly, after almost 2 weeks in ICU, I never saw a medical bill, not one, not for anything.

The problem with “The Future Made In Australia”: everything ends up in China anyway

G7 is anti-China because US fears China. US is the supremo. Other G7 countries follow its diktat on everything, not just China’s policy. On the trade side, its trade with China has been declining, except for Japan.

This is still the situation. But it may change.

America First is not just a slogan, but Trump’s drive to America’s greatness. The other G6 are dispensable, and are being dispensed with, such as Ukraine and tariffs. Trump thinks they have ripped off the US over the years and will have to pay.

Canada has the means to escape his wrath if it accepts his offer to become the 51st state of the Union.

We shall see what happen when Trump’s tariffs are in full flower come April, and the retaliations.

China is opening up its market, and more and more sectors in the economy are opened for foreign investments.

Global trade would see an orientation away from the US due to the tariffs, and towards China. Already the stories of economic and trade growths are written in the global south countries. The other G6 countries should decide if they want to be part of the stories.

Easy Lemon Pepper Scampi

Keep frozen peeled shrimp on hand in your freezer so you can prepare this quick and Easy Lemon Pepper Shrimp Scampi anytime.

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Prep: 10 min | Cook: 5 min | Yield: 4 servings

Ingredients

  • 1/3 cup olive oil
  • 1 tablespoon minced garlic
  • 1 pound large shrimp, peeled and deveined
  • 1 tablespoon McCormick® Perfect Pinch® Lemon & Pepper Seasoning
  • 1 teaspoon McCormick® Parsley Flakes

Instructions

  1. Heat oil in large skillet on medium heat. Add garlic; cook and stir 30 seconds or until fragrant. (Do not brown.)
  2. Add shrimp and Seasoning; cook and stir for 3 to 4 minutes or just until shrimp turn pink.
  3. Sprinkle with parsley.
  4. Serve over cooked pasta or rice, if desired.

I had never thought a lot about this topic until my wife got sick.

I am fortunate enough to have very good health insurance through my employer, and even with it we still face significant expenditures for her care. There’s the premiums themselves, of course, plus the deductible, plus out-of-pocket costs for things that insurance doesn’t cover – all in all around $1k per month, or $12,000 per year. We can afford that, pretty much. My insurance is a High Deductible with Health Savings Account plan and I use every penny that goes into it for these things.

But what we could never afford is the medical costs themselves. Out of curiosity I built a spreadsheet listing every insurance claim since she was stricken, back in 2015. It’s over 1.5 MILLION dollars worth of doctor visits, hospital stays and prescriptions – a completely impossible number, one that would have driven us quickly into bankruptcy, losing our house, my retirement funds and anything else we own – and it still would not have been enough.

When I see or hear people in authority decry universal health care because ‘it’s too expensive’ I grit my teeth, and wonder how much they got in ‘campaign contributions’ (read: bribes) from the healthcare industry. When I hear people who are allegedly Christian say ‘they don’t deserve it’ I think of the parable of the Good Samaritan – these people are no better than the Pharisee who crossed the road to avoid the man who had been beaten.

People don’t get sick because they’re bad, or evil – stuff just happens. And Jesus didn’t say, ‘Feed some of the hungry, clothe the naked we like and ignore the rest, and care for the sick but only if they agree with us.’ He was very straightforward and included EVERYONE – and so should we.

It’s not about politics, or religion, or thinly-disguised racism. It’s the right thing to do. Other countries do it, better and cheaper than we do. We need to do the same.

Wife Completely LOSES IT After Finding Out Her Husband KNEW She Had Been Cheating And Was Preparing

Sometimes, less is more—especially when it comes to fur, feelings, and questionable raccoon cuisine

There was a moment that I would like to relate.

You know, all through school and into university, I took the hardest classes; the hard science classes. I excelled and forgo girls and dating with my mind fixed on my goal, and I ended up becoming a Naval Aviator. There, i was offered a role in MAJestic.

And then after my bio-modifications, I was sent loose on the Earth. And as such, I experienced all sorts of things. One of with was the harsh reality of American life. And in that harsh reality were various “snapshots”.

Today I will talk about one.

I was a breakfast cook in a restaurant in San Louis Obsispo, California. And there, I cooked, and did what ever I could do to make money. And yeah, I was often belittled by the owner’s snotty kid who was perhaps five years younger than me. And there, they also used me as their “roust about” go to” guy to do the dirty work.

And under that restaurant was a grease trap.

It was a cement rectangular box under the floorboards, that collected all the grease from the kitchen. And I was told to clean it out. And so I did. I got in that grease trap, waist deep, and with a bucket emptied it, and handed the bucket of grease to another fellow who poured it into a barrel.

Took me two hours.

I was then paid, and he gave me an extra three dollars for my efforts.

It was hot and dirty work. But it was calm and damp under the restaurant. You see the entire town was built over a meandering stream, and I had a view of that mystery stream that very few people ever had a chance to look at.

I think that I spent the three dollars on some gas for the van.

And that is my story for today.

Not a painful memory. But a dirty one.

Today…

Ha!what an interesting question.

Chinese civilization has two roughly simultaneous origins, namely two great rivers over 5,000 kilometers long: the Yellow River in the north and the Yangtze River in the south.

In ancient times, the main crops in northern China were 黍和粟,millet and broomcorn millet, literally meaning “yellow rice” and “small rice.”

But about 3,000 years ago, a crop from West Asia entered China—wheat!

The image below is oracle bone script.

This is “come” (come here).

This is “wheat.”

Do you notice how similar these two characters look?

That’s right!

The original meaning of “wheat” in Chinese is “the one that came here.”

By the Warring States period, northern China was mostly growing wheat, while the native crops, millet and broomcorn millet, had very low yields.

In the south, meanwhile, it has always been rice agriculture, lasting for over 7,000 years.

As for “barbarism and civilization,” it has nothing to do with eating noodles or rice.

In today’s China, the south seems to have always considered itself more civilized, more refined.

But in ancient times, it was the complete opposite!

Back then, the rice-eating south was the “barbaric and ferocious” one—fierce and tough as hell!

They didn’t even value their own lives.

To the “civilized people” of the north, southerners were all barbarians…

I’m a southerner, raised eating only rice, almost never touching noodles.

At 16, I got into a university in Beijing, where the cafeteria offered both rice and noodles.

I basically stuck to rice.

My northern classmates, on the other hand, loved noodle dishes—like noodles or steamed buns.

Later, I got married. My wife is from the north, and she only ate noodles.

Now?

Now I like eating noodles, and she likes eating rice 🙂

Our kids, though—they love everything. They like noodles, and they like rice :)

Because for many years China and Chinese companies could buy the advanced chips they wanted from western companies. The Chinese government tried to get Chinese entrepreneurs to develop Chinese chips, but this strategy did not make good business sense.

The only Chinese company which worked seriously on developing Chinese chips was Huawei. Many Chinese considered Huawei’s founder, Ren Zhengfei, to be paranoid and eccentric.

Then, under the first Trump administration, the US went after Huawei, and even had the Canadian government seize the company’s CFO, who was Ren’s daughter.

In the face of open US hostility, Chinese companies had no choice except to develop their own high-end chips.

Sweet Baked Beef Brisket

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Yield: 8 servings

Ingredients

  • 1 (4 pound) boneless beef brisket, trimmed of fat
  • 2 to 3 tablespoons dried herb blend
  • 2 large onions, thickly sliced
  • 2 1/2 cups apple juice
  • 1/3 cup honey
  • 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
  • 1 teaspoon ground ginger
  • 1 teaspoon ground nutmeg
  • 1 apple, peeled, cored and chopped
  • 3 tablespoons raisins
  • 1/2 cup water
  • 3 tablespoons cornstarch

Instructions

  1. Place beef brisket in a 13 x 10 inch shallow roasting pan. Thoroughly and evenly coat brisket with herb blend. Top with onion.
  2. Bake at 425 degrees F for 1 hour, or until onions turn brown.
  3. Mix apple juice, honey and spices, pour over brisket, cover tightly with foil, return to oven and bake for 1 hour at 350 degrees F or until brisket is tender.
  4. Remove brisket to a warm platter. Skim fat from juices.
  5. To make gravy, combine water and cornstarch. Add to juices in pan. Pour cooking juices into a saucepan, add apple and raisins, bring to a boil, then lower to a simmer and cook about 5 minutes until apples are tender, about 5 to 8 minutes.
  6. Slice brisket against the grain, spoon sauce over meat and serve.

If you’re a citizen you’re automatically insured, birth to death, so there are no extra costs, no quibbles. Just medical treatment.

And no profit-driven private insurance company looking for ways to reduce or deny a claim (there is no claim – you just get treated).

Chopsticks are very easy to use and practical. It’s much easier to wind long noodles around a set of chopsticks than it is to attempt being graceful with a spoon.

Also, chopsticks are used in cooking. They actually make what are called cooking chopsticks. They are much longer than normal. Although, in a pinch, the dining chopsticks work. Use them to scramble, whisk, spear, deep fry, flip, or scoop. In fact, if you have a wok, a cleaver, and a pair of chopsticks, you can make a lot of Chinese dishes. The simplicity and minimalism is great!

You can even use them to keep your hair out of your face while cooking—though please don’t confuse the pair in your hair with the pair you use to cook with!

Some people might even use them to serve kabobs.

Just, whatever you do, don’t use chopsticks to make a gun.


If you want more uses for chopsticks:

Or if you would like to learn how to use them:

My late friend Jeffrey Zhang taught me how to use them and made me practice over and over again with things like grapes, berries, or popcorn. We shared much laughter as he’d watch some of my targets roll, bounce, or fly away.

I Am Mac SE/30

Written in response to: Write a story from the POV of a now-defunct piece of technology.

Doux Ancolie

Thirty-six years ago this month, I came to life in an Apple factory in Fremont, California. They call me the Macintosh SE/30, simply known as “Mac.” Our reign of power began in 1989 and lasted until 1991. Through the early years, my colony and I were Apple strong, and we numbered in the thousands. Many of us grouped together in colonies and shipped by our Creator to strange and unknown domains. We were unexperienced in this new format of presence, it was a strange and unknown area full of darkness.

All was silent until I experienced an awakening on a Monday, December 11, 1989. The electrical surge shot through my circuits and components, flickering my monochrome screen to display every 512×342 of gray pixels from corner to corner. I get pinged with an instruction from the Captain EFI, “I AM Mac SE/30.” I scan my internal EFI logs, tracking my hours of operation by minutes and seconds, including the month and days of the year. As long as I have an electrical current, I can process other programs. I lavish it more so from my input cousins, the keyboard and the mouse. I am a superstar starting with 1MB of RAM that expands with eight memory slots, holding up to 32MB. My SCSI drive bay can use a 40MB or 80MB hard disc to store and access data. I process data in the form of images and animated graphics, or text for file documents. Don’t be fooled by my size! I’m following instructions at 16MHz, and I am the “fastest and most expandable monochrome MacIntosh” of my time. “Don’t ask me how I know this. I just do.” I receive other commands from “Sergent Memory,” and it is directed from component to component, working me faster and faster. I am Mac SE/30 and “I am alive!”

In less than a nanosecond, light drizzled upon me. With each processing moment, I can see from my screen an entire colony of SE/30s surrounding me. Hallelujah we are united, and I am surging with power, waiting for my next command. Our independent mission is to process the bits and bytes in each unit’s coding and display it on its screen. Nothing more, nothing less, and I am exceptionally good at what I do. To feed me, I need electrical power and software programs on floppy discs inserted into my dock bay. A picosecond passes and there is another source of energy entering the room. The creature looks similar to my Creator as it sits in front of me. The Mac SE/30 Creator gave me vast spatial distribution thanks to my expandable memory, my speed, and my graphic capabilities. I never stop creating until the creature leaves. As long as the current energizes me, I can process input and display the output on my screen. Input is like a goddess, for she brought me information on a disc inserted into my bay and commanded to load data on my screen. The information empowered me for any creature to create animated and interactive jobs that are saved on my SCSI disc tracks and sectors. So much energy running through me, I could do this forever.

The creature in front of me inserts a floppy disc and internal commands are being sent and received when the data appears on the screen. I take notice of what is going on around me and I see creatures sitting in front of other SE/30 members. After this creature has input the floppy disc into the bay, I process the input for several hours as output splatters across the screen, taking shape and filling each pixel. A matter of seconds passed before I was displaying an interactive map of downtown Golden, Colo. For each icon on the map, the creature input data and the result appeared on the screen with a comment box and digitized figures moving about. A ball is bouncing, and animation is inviting a ping on the Coors Brewery icon, “Take the Tour.” The changes were compiled and saved on the SCSI. This was the funnest creation I have experienced. So many pings were hitting my processor at once that it is good to have a powerful fan built in to keep my circuit board and components cool. The current I use for power gets hot with so much going on inside of me. The Creature now in front of me is like my Creator, it too is vertically oblong with its own slots for input and output. The Creature has two round holes near the top curve of its figure. A small distance below were two smaller holes, and below it was a bigger hole that can change shapes. That big hole stayed closed during most operations, except for when it moved up and down. I watched the creature’s expression, which I could not process, but every time the big hole made a jolly noise, the program was saved and activated again. After hours of processing, the program was closed down and the disc removed. I am silent at 23:00 hours, and this proves true for the rest of my stay.

Every time I went silent and was powered on again, the date and time were different, but I quickly adjusted to real time. From my code analysis, I keep track of how many hours I am in operation. The seconds, minutes, and hours of the month and the year came and went when 296 days had passed, and I went silent. I was disassembled and opened up to make repairs on my clock battery and to add more memory to my expansion slots. My cousins were wiped cleaned with a white swab and clear liquid. We were getting a preventative maintenance clean up. Another year and half goes by, and on my next awakening, I notice that a part of my colony, the troops are gone and they were replaced with a bigger size: the MacIntosh Classic II. I got to know more about Classic, as we could communicate through electrical transference energy in the room. By 1991, Classic told me that my species has been pulled from manufacturing and the Creator is now making colonies of Classic IIs. On March 31, 1995, I went silent for a very long time.

I came alive with the current in 2020. Captain Processor completes my surge of power and the last time I was alive was April 1, 1995. On this day January 17, 2020, nine thousand, one hundred and twenty-five days have passed since my last entry. I’m no longer in the big room of light with different sizes of creatures sitting down to use my power to create animated graphics. Such pleasant memories. Before I was removed, Classic informed me that when we are disassembled, we are melted down, packaged and dispersed. Fortunately for me, I was salvaged and kept in a secure domain. Time showed 16:00 hours when the creature approached me and sat down in front of me. He slips in the floppy disc and viola! I load the graphics program while I wait for more input. The creature fools around and then adds a scsi device to the back of my port. It’s a modem that he has connected to me. How am I supposed to recognize the device without software telling me what it is? I call him Crea. He’s a young creature that likes to tinker with electronically powered devices. I am now his next project.

From the table top I’m placed on, I see another odd-looking device. Hey, it is the Classic II, and there are two more next to him. Next to me is a flatter device, and it folds over. I have no idea what it does, but it uses power. Crea taps my device keyboard, and it lights up with images and animated icons moving around on my screen. Several hours go by when Crea removed the disc and changed shapes to move away.

I counted the hours and minutes. Twenty-four hours pass before Crea appears before me, and inserts a floppy disc. My days are never numbered. I can still perform the same work today that I did thirty-six years ago. I feel other energy sources in the room with me. Some appear to be the same shape and size, while a few other devices are small and large. Several large devices have big images that light up the silence in my life.

Yours truly,

I AM Mac SE/30 and “I am alive.”

U.S.-China trade accounts for a smaller and smaller share of China’s GDP, already slightly less than 1.5 percent in 2024.

So this time when Trump started a tariff war, China was almost quiet. Even if the Chinese paid attention, they just wanted to see Trump’s joke.

The United States was panicking, the stock market plummeted, and all the media were scolding Trump.

The American media almost said:

Don’t fight a trade war, let’s surrender to China quickly. Now is the time with the lowest cost. In the future, if we surrender to China, we will not only kneel, but also raise our hands high.

Trump wants to focus his fire on China, but he’ll play America to the point of collapse before he has a chance to do any real damage to China.

Just recently, China launched the strongest counterattack, imposing a 34% tariff on all goods originating from the United States!

Trade war escalates as China hits back with 34% tariffs on all U.S. goods
Analysts say the escalating trade tensions between the U.S and China will make a near-term deal to end the trade war “highly unlikely”.

The target of the tariff is all American goods!

Trump has repeatedly provoked, and now it is finally as he wished, China and the United States are about to decouple…


China’s imposition of tariffs on US goods, in simple terms, will have two results.

First, most US goods are highly substitutable.

China can live without the US, but the US cannot live without China.

China can always find a bunch of agricultural products to replace US agricultural products. But once China stops importing, it will be a devastating blow to the US.

The largest category of US exports to China is agricultural products, which do not have any technical content, but account for 18.8% of US exports.

Soybeans are the most important agricultural product in the United States, and China is the largest buyer of US soybeans, accounting for more than 60% of US global exports.

Now that China does not buy US soybeans, countries like Brazil are very happy, as they finally have the opportunity to sell soybeans to China.

The US is miserable, as soybean stocks will surge, prices will plummet, and they will eventually be destroyed if they cannot be sold.

In the 2018 trade war, China only imposed a 10% tariff on US soybeans, and US soybean prices immediately fell by 26%. US farmers suffered heavy losses, and protests against Trump continued. American farmers are Trump’s base and the Republican Party’s iron base. Trump can just wait to be scolded.

In the future, whether it is American energy, automobiles or chemical products, they are all dispensable, and substitutes can be found everywhere.

American energy traders are now jumping up and down and scolding Trump, saying

“We tried every means to raise funds for you, Trump, to return to the White House, and this is how you repay us?”

For example, the United States has been thinking about getting China to buy their Boeing aircraft every day, but now it is completely impossible, and Airbus in Europe will start to be happy. Not only that, China’s large aircraft development speed will be further accelerated.

Therefore, the United States will suffer a severe blow, and the base of Trump’s supporters will collapse.

Second, the next important thing is that the Chinese science and technology community will start to be happy.

Now no one discusses chips, because China’s chip problem has been solved by Trump.

Six years ago, China’s chip industry was struggling to support itself, and almost no one invested in domestic chips because they found it difficult to find a market.

People all have a dependent mentality, which is a weakness of human nature, and there is no way.

It is normal to have such an idea that “it is better to buy than to make, and it is better to rent than to buy”. Who would be willing to spend so much effort on such a long supply chain research and development when they can normally import more mature chips from abroad?

But once Trump starts to sanction Chinese chips, China’s opportunity for domestically produced chips will finally come!

When Trump’s blockade began, the situation reversed and China began to eliminate all interference and focus on developing China’s domestically produced chips. The sales of China’s domestically produced chips also soared.

Since 2018, all major domestic manufacturers, as long as the chips are not much different in quality, have begun to use domestic chips as much as possible, at least, they have begun to have backup plans for domestic chips.

So, after the start of the technology war, Chinese chip companies began to grow explosively, and various capitals squeezed into this track crazily… Everyone is paying attention to chips.

In just 6 years, China has become the world’s largest chip exporter. In 2024, the total chip export volume will exceed 1 trillion.

China is poised to dominate the market for legacy chips
And the U.S. may only have itself to blame.

Although we have not yet developed the most advanced chips, everyone knows that it is only a matter of time.

After China’s counterattack began this time, it will be even more difficult for Texas Instruments, Intel, and other chips to enter the Chinese market. Jensen Huang felt very disappointed and said, “I’m done for now. I only have 3 years left at most.”


But what is the United States really panicking about now?

The United States, which was originally the founder and leader of global trade, is now completely crazy and has taken the initiative to withdraw from and destroy its own trade system.

The United States has become isolated, while China, as the world’s largest trading country and industrial hegemon, will surely hold high the banner of free trade and strive to develop its own circle of friends. A new world trade pattern centered on China will be formed quickly.

So the Economist magazine said that this is not “Making America great again”, but “Making China great again”.

Well, we don’t call it “Making China great again”, we call it “China return to its original position in history”.

What is the nature of the US-China trade war?

Trump imposed total of 54% tariffs on China in addition to the 20% to 25% he imposed during his first term for total of 74% to 79% (not counting Biden’s tariffs).

China countered with 10% and 15% tariffs on selected US goods + 34% on all US goods, for total of 44% to 49% on selected goods and 34% on all other goods.

US has sanctions galore on China to frustrate its tech development. Trump & Biden blacklisted over 1,500 Chinese companies on its entity list.

China bans exports of certain minerals and technologies to the US. Many minerals are in its exports control list, nearly 10 US companies are also on this list, over 10 others are blacklisted in its unreliable entity list, and several are under investigation for antitrust andChina said it would do whatever it takes to protect its interest, which suggests, it would match the US if it escalates the tariff. other offences.

Who would win the trade war? Both will lose. Who would pay the heavier price?

China exported $440bn worth of good to the US in 2024, most were consumer goods, intermediate inputs, and equipment. US exports to China were worth $143bn, mostly agriculture and energy goods.

Is China or US more able to replace the goods from the other sources?

China has many other sources of supply of agriculture and energy goods. Does US have other sources of supply to replace the imports from China? bearing in mind that US tariffs of other major exporters are at 20% to 45% rates.

We may say the more dependent country would pay most of the tariffs.

How badly would the tariffs affect the growth of each country? Our guesstimate for China is 0.5 to 1.0 percentage point, taking account that its exports to the US in 2024 were 2.4% of GDP. We refrain from making a guess for the US. Its trade war is with the world.

US’s sanctions of China is over 10 years old. Its sanction pool should be quite empty. China is new in the sanction game. It has a full arsenal, the notables are rare earth minerals & related technologies. The initiative lies with China.

Time will tell who has the better stamina to sustain the trade war.

Nothing is different in those countries, universal healthcare works fine in those countries, and medical outcomes are better, medical professionals are well paid (I have doctors as friends, the mother of my children is a nurse)

The reason single payer will not work in the US, is the private medical insurance industry, makes billions in profits, executives get massive bonuses, not one dime of which goes to medical expenses.

Those billions, help to pay for lobbyists, and negative advertising campaigns. Those negative advertising campaigns, which include social media posts, create an atmosphere of distrust in the idea of universal healthcare, in the minds of many Americans.

It’s pretty sad – since the entire world, has universal healthcare.

Sir Whiskerton and the Case of the Shedding Sheep: A Tale of Wool, Woe, and a Very Fluffy Apocalypse

Ah, dear reader, prepare yourself for a tale so absurd, so unraveled, that even the scarecrow would clutch his straw in horror. Today’s story is one of runaway fleece, allergic reactions, and the eternal truth that too much of a good thing is just a very itchy nightmare.

So grab your lint roller (you’ll need it), and let us dive into Sir Whiskerton and the Case of the Shedding Sheep: A Tale of Wool, Woe, and a Very Fluffy Apocalypse.


Act 1: The Fleece That Ate the Farm

It began on a peaceful morning—which, as any farm animal will tell you, is never a good sign. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and Fluffy the Sheep was… well, exploding.

  • “I don’t mean to alarm anyone,” Fluffy said calmly, “but I believe I’m shedding.”
  • “Shedding!” Ditto echoed, already buried up to his ears in wool.

And shedding was an understatement. Fluffy wasn’t just losing a little fluff—she was launching it into the atmosphere like a confetti cannon at a very confused wedding.

Within minutes:

  • The barn was padded like a winter coat.
  • The pond was a woolly hot tub.
  • Rufus the Dog had vanished entirely, leaving only a faint “help” muffled under six feet of fleece.

Sir Whiskerton, ever the voice of reason (or at least the voice of mild irritation), surveyed the chaos.

  • “This,” he declared, “is a problem.”
  • “Problem!” Ditto agreed, sneezing out a puff of wool like a tiny, distressed cloud.

Act 2: Doris the Hen’s Fluffy Nightmare

Enter Doris the Hen, who had opinions about the situation.

  • “I’m not a hen—I’m a woolly mammoth!” she shrieked, flapping wings now completely mummified in fluff. “And I’m allergic to fluff!”
  • “Fluff!” Ditto sneezed.
  • “You’re allergic to yourself half the time,” Sir Whiskerton pointed out.
  • “That’s irrelevant!” Doris snapped, before sneezing so hard her comb wobbled.

Meanwhile, Porkchop the Pig had taken advantage of the situation by building a wool fort and declaring himself King of the Fluff.

  • “Bow before me, peasants!” he announced, lounging on a throne of fleece.
  • “That’s my wool,” Fluffy said.
  • “Finders keepers,” Porkchop replied, tossing a wool ball at Ferdinand the Duck, who mistook it for a very soft grenade and quacked in terror.

Act 3: The Great Shearing Showdown

Sir Whiskerton, realizing that the farm was one sneeze away from becoming a giant sweater, devised a plan:

  1. Find the root cause of Fluffy’s shedding. (Was it stress? Diet? A secret wool-based vendetta?)
  2. Stop it before the farmer returned and mistook the farm for a craft store.
  3. Save Rufus. (Maybe.)

But first, they had to navigate the wool wasteland.

  • “It’s like a blizzard,” Doris wheezed, “if blizzards were made of poor life choices.”
  • “Choices!” Ditto coughed, now completely camouflaged as a tumbleweed.

After digging through fluff like archeologists at a very soft dig site, they discovered the culprit:

Fluffy had been sneaking extra helpings of “special” feed from Chef Remy LeRaccoon’s “Experimental Buffet.”

  • “It was supposed to make my wool shinier,” Fluffy admitted.
  • “Instead, it made you a public hazard,” Sir Whiskerton deadpanned.

The solution? A radical, farm-wide shearing.

  • Bessie the Tie-Dye Cow volunteered her “groovy” scissors.
  • Buckley the Goat ate the loose wool (for “moral support”).
  • Doris supervised from a safe distance (i.e., the roof).

And when the last tuft was trimmed?

The farm was saved.

(Though Rufus was still missing. Turns out he’d burrowed into the wool and taken a nap. He was fine. Probably.)


Moral of the Story

Sometimes, less is more—especially when it comes to fur, feelings, and questionable raccoon cuisine.

Also, never trust a sheep with a glow-up plan.


Best Lines

 

 

  • “I’m not a hen—I’m a woolly mammoth!” — Doris, having a day.
  • “Bow before me, peasants!” — Porkchop, briefly the fluffiest tyrant.
  • “It’s like a blizzard if blizzards were made of poor life choices.” — Doris, poet of pain.

Post-Credit Scene

*Chef Remy LeRaccoon unveils his newest invention: “Un-Shedding Serum!” The label reads: “May cause excessive hoarding. Or llamas. We’re not sure.”

Starring

  • Sir Whiskerton as The Cat Who’s Done With Fluff
  • Fluffy the Sheep as The Walking Yarn Bomb
  • Doris the Hen as “I Regret Everything”
  • Rufus as “Still Stuck in the Wool”

P.S. If life gives you wool, knit a sweater and get over it.

The End.

On a long-haul 747 flight, each passenger uses the toilet an average of 2.4 times, producing 870 litres of waste – roughly the volume of a four-person Jacuzzi.

There is so much unwanted material, it would take miraculous engineering to process it all.

This is where the flush function of airplane toilets comes in handy.

Currently, these toilets do not work with traditional siphons and water.

As early as 1982, airplanes began installing new toilets with non-stick bowls that used a blue substance called Skychem instead of water, and powerful vacuum suction devices that left almost nothing in the bowl.

Skykem helps eliminate odors and sanitize the toilet bowl. Additionally, vacuum toilets use much less water than siphon toilets, are much lighter, and can be installed in a variety of ways, making them more fuel- and space-efficient – two very important factors on an airplane.

When you flush, a trap door at the bottom of the toilet opens and the Skykem liquid fills the bowl. The loud noise you hear when flushing is not the trap door opening out as many people think. It’s simply the sound of a vacuum suction, like a large vacuum cleaner.

Waste is sucked in through the toilet hole and travels through pipes to the rear of the plane, where it ends up in a tank that can only be accessed from outside the plane. Pilots can’t empty this tank in flight even if they wanted to.

When the plane lands on the ground, the tanks are emptied by a special tanker truck, which attaches a hose to the plane and vacuums up the waste. Once the plane’s tanks are empty, they are cleaned with a disinfectant.

However, there have been many incidents in the past where waste from airplane toilets has fallen from the sky and landed on houses.

This was a common issue in the 60s and 70s when airplane toilet pipes weren’t properly sealed, causing leaks. Urine and waste would mix with the Skykem and leak out of the pipes, usually onto the outside of the plane near the rear landing gear.

When this liquid comes into contact with the cold air at high altitudes it turns into blue ice .

As the plane descended to land, the ice began to melt, falling off the plane and eventually onto the roof of a house.

In 1971, a huge block of blue ice fell on a building in London, blowing a hole in the roof.

There have been several instances of this kind of incident around the world in older aircraft over the past few decades. Although it is now very rare, it does happen from time to time.

Has a plane ever intentionally dumped waste while in flight?

The answer is yes. In the early days of civil aviation in the 1930s, aircraft such as the British Stranraer and Short Sunderland had toilets that opened to the outside. Anything that fell into the bowl was dumped outside.

However, as time passed and commercial air travel increased, this practice was soon phased out.

The Iphone 16 Model would cost $ 1,378 in USA after the Tariffs from China, $ 1,438 from India, $ 1780 if parts are assembled in India and subsidy of $ 16 Billion is given to apple to assemble in USA for 5 years (plus 2 years set up cost)

However if Fully made in USA including the Supply Chain then even with a $ 60 Billion subsidy to shift the entire supply Chains to US, an Iphone could cost $ 2100 and $ 2500 without Subsidy

So Options for Apple

Keep making in China and India and have customers pay $ 1380 and $ 1440 respectively, around $ 200 extra

Or

Get $ 16 Billion from USA, spend $ 15 Billion to uproot assembly chain from China, spend $ 4.5 Billion to uproot assembly chain from India, lose the Chinese & Indian market and sell in US for $ 1,800 each – an extra cost of $ 600 for the customer

Or

Get $ 60 Billion Subsidy from USA, spend $ 37 Billion to uproot supply chains, lose the Chinese and Indian market and sell in the US for $ 2100 per customer, $ 900 higher

Or

Get no subsidy, lose the Chinese and Indian business and spend $ 37 Billion to uproot supply chains and sell in the US for $ 2500 per customer, $ 1300 higher

Easiest to just reduce the license payments by $ 50, reduce the commission by $ 80, reduce the commission mark up by $ 25 and pay the tariffs

It comes to $ 1,225 per Iphone, only $ 25–35 extra that any customer can pay

Apple will likely absorb the loss

The Carson Effect

Written in response to: Write a story in which someone time-travels 25 years or more into the past.

Ryan Bigley

This story contains themes or mentions of suicide or self harm.

“But what kind of music is most popular?”I’m not really sure how to answer this, because I don’t really listen to that kind of music in my older age. “I don’t know, pop music?”“So, we’re listening to the same music that we are now?”“I mean, I guess.”“Well, who’s the president?”

 

“Donald Trump.”

 

“Seriously? That attention hog that is always in the news with the terrible haircut and ugly gold buildings?”

 

“Yep, same guy.”

 

“Wow, we must have lost some serious war to be in such a crappy future.”

 

It occurs to me that we have not really progressed in the future of the year 2025. These people I’m talking to in 1995 don’t really believe I’m from the future. It doesn’t really help that I can’t exactly prove it. “Not really. We didn’t lose any wars, actually. In fact, we started some wars.”

 

“So, do cell phones actually get smaller?”

 

“No, in fact, they get bigger.”

 

“Bigger? Why?”

 

“We use phones to watch videos and check our social media.”

 

“Our what?” I keep forgetting, social media didn’t become a thing until the mid-2000’s.

 

“We use our phones to open up an application that shows what our friends are doing.” I mean, that’s what they were originally intended for. Now, our social media is only used to spew ignorance and sell advertising space.”

 

“Wait, people give their real names to other people online? And then you spy on them? Isn’t that dangerous?”

 

I definitely remember a time when we were told not to give out personal information on the internet. It’s amazing how much of our personal lives we give out to a wide open network.

 

“These phones, do they still make phone calls?”

 

“Well, yes. But nobody really uses their phone for that purpose.”

 

“So, why do you still call them phones?”

 

The technology was revolutionary. In what was an attempt to open up childhood memories for the purposes of therapy, the company Dygonine actually unlocked the human ability to travel backwards in time. Humans had always had the undiscovered ability to change their timelines, just like the ability to see, hear, feel, smell, and taste.

 

While developing technology to open up repressed memories, a scientist named Dr. Gilbert Carson working with Dygonine had been doing an MRI on a patient when they discovered a section of our brain that was firing neurons into empty gray matter. In a risky exploratory surgery, this scientist also discovered that this part of the brain had no outlet to the temporal lobe. Without knowing precisely what it would do, Dr. Carson advised the surgeons to connect this small discovery to the temporal lobe. When the patient woke up, he didn’t feel that much different. But he did keep referring to his son’s 4th birthday party, which was a year and a half ago. We initially thought it was memory loss, since the man had brain surgery. Instead, he was recollecting specific memories (like the color of shirt he was wearing, and the color of the wrapping paper on his son’s gifts).

 

Just as soon as the patient was wheeled into his recovery room, his wife and now 5 1/2 year old son walk into the room to greet him. Everyone is happy, and the recovery looks to be on track.

Dr. Carson is less enthused. I was his protege, and brought me to meet the patient after the surgery was over.

 

“Matthew, we need to talk about this patient. Something isn’t right.”

 

This was strange seeing as how the patient was clearly doing well, and he was surrounded by family. “Dr. Carson,” I ask, as we leave the hospital room. “What’s the matter?”

 

“When the patient checked in, he had no emergency contact. He listed no dependents. He claimed a “widowed” marital status. And now he has a wife and son. I don’t understand this.”

 

This was puzzling to me as well. Could he have been lying? Could this man have risked his life for a surgery that could have killed him, and leave his wife and son without a husband and father?

 

Weeks pass, and we’re still no closer to a real answer. The patient has tried to explain what the issue is, but he swears he wrote the paperwork information down correctly. He seems willing to try and helps us and provide answers, but he’s not really sure what happened.

 

“Dr. Carson, I think I should have the surgery.” I say, mostly bluffing to get a reaction, but also because something happened after the surgery, and I want to know.

 

“Out of the question, Matthew. You’re one of the brightest young minds I’ve ever known. We’re not risking that brain for a wild experiment.”

 

“Doctor, something happened to our patient when opening up his Carson’s Area.” Scientists thought it only fair to name the area of the brain we discovered after Dr. Carson. It was the least they could do.

 

“I know that, but why does it have to be you?”

 

“Isn’t it obvious? I know what we’re studying, I know what outcome we’re seeking, and if I experience what happens first hand, I will be able to better explain it.”

 

“But Matthew, if you damage your brain, all of your work will be lost forever.”

 

“Maybe, but at least you’ll have the answer for the future.”

 

Surgery has always been nerve-wracking for me. The thought of being under anesthesia and having zero control of my body as its being operated on, the feeling of knowing that when you come out of it, you’ll be groggy and doped up. The fact that some people that have died and been resuscitated say that it’s a lot like going under anesthesia, where you don’t see black, you don’t feel anything, you just don’t exist. Oh, and this time, they’re operating on my brain.

 

“Say the alphabet backwards.” My anesthesiologist had a sense of humor. Jokes on him, I’ve been practicing since I was in second grade.

 

“Z, Y, X, W, V, U, T, s…. ”

 

 

 

Tyler had been asking me for weeks. “When are you getting that tattoo, dude?”

 

I had always wanted a tattoo of my favorite band, Pink Floyd. The prism from the album Dark Side of the Moon. “I don’t know, I’m kind of afraid of needles. And I don’t do well with pain.”

 

This, of course, does not sit as well with Tyler, who is covered in tattoos. “Come on, dude, it doesn’t hurt that much.”

 

“I’m telling you, I’m horrible with pain. I’m really not sure I want to go through with this.”

 

Tyler was always a sort of negative influence on me. “I swear, you’re afraid to live.”

 

He was right. I always preferred safety. No tattoos, no piercings, no skydiving. Never did drugs, never drank, I was always the kid that avoided pain as much as possible. Just as I’m about to go home, Tyler grabs my arm. “Just think, a life-long testament to the greatest band ever. Right here, immortalized forever. You’ve always wanted this, why not make it happen?

 

I’m not sure why, but this is what finally convinces me that I want to live a little. Every thought in my brain is telling me to run away, but just this once, I think I want to override my own brain. “Okay. Let’s make this happen.”

 

He did it. He got the most stubborn, allergic-to-pain guy he’s ever known to get a tattoo. And boy, they weren’t kidding about the pain. Holy moly, this is probably the most painful thing I’ve ever felt. I regret making this choice. Why didn’t I listen to myself 20 minutes ago.

 

However, 20 minutes was all it took. A few needle jabs, some unabated torture, and voila. A triangular prism with a rainbow shooting out of it. It’s truly a work of art. Now that it’s all said and done, I’m actually really proud of this, and I can’t wait to show everyone.

 

 

 

“Hi Matthew, you’re doing great. The surgery was a success, you’re in the recovery room right now.”

 

Whoa, that was strange. I don’t think I’ve ever had a dream while under anesthesia. It takes me a couple of hours to finally feel like I’m awake.

 

“Glad to see we didn’t completely ruin your brain.” Dr. Carson wasn’t without his charm. It was good to see him while I was waking up. I was ready to get to work, but he insisted that we can wait until I’m at least up and walking again.

 

“Dr. Carson, how common is it for people under anesthesia to have dreams?”

 

“I don’t know, Matthew, I’m not that kind of doctor. What dream did you have?”

 

“Well, I dreamt that I got a tattoo of the Dark Side of the Moon prism. I felt the pain and everything. It’s no wonder I’ve never gotten a tattoo.”

 

Dr. Carson was immediately perplexed. “What do you mean never gotten a tattoo?”

 

I was starting to get worried. “You know, how I hate needles and pain?”

 

Dr. Carson got out his notebook and started writing something down really quickly. “Matthew, raise up your left sleeve for me.”

I didn’t know what this was about, until it revealed itself. A slightly-faded, clearly aged, triangular prism with a rainbow shooting out of the other side.

 

 

 

How is this possible? Did I somehow alter the past? That dream had to mean something. I got a tattoo in that dream, then it appeared. Interestingly enough, I remember having a conversation with my friend Tyler, and specifically not getting one for my fear of pain. Why do I have two separate memories of this event? Well, clearly something changed, because I now have this 10-year-old tattoo on my left arm.

 

“Dr. Carson, did I alter the past?”

 

Dr. Carson looks at me like I was speaking a different language.

 

“Because, I remember the day I got the tattoo two different ways. One where I didn’t get the tattoo, and one where I did. I told myself days after the fact that I should have just gone through with it. Did I just go back to a time where I changed the outcome?”

 

Dr. Carson continued to scribble in his notes, he was onto something that he wasn’t sharing with me.

 

“Matthew, try something for me. Think of a time where you made a decision you regret, but don’t tell me. Think about the time in your head. Scream it to yourself with your inner dialogue. I’m going to ask the nurse for some melatonin. I want you to report back with what happens when I see you bright and early tomorrow morning.”

 

This all seems so strange. I’m not really sure where this is really going, but I told Dr. Carson that I was willing to go through this experience to get the answer, so I trust his judgment. Within the hour, I was asleep.

 

Dr. Carson was sitting in the chair across the room when I wake up precisely at 6:30am. He has clearly been monitoring me for some time.

 

“How do we feel this morning?” Dr. Carson pulled no punches.

 

“Fine, I could really use some grape juice.”

 

“You left your bottle on your table.”

 

This was an interesting development. Last night before I fell asleep, I asked for some apple juice to take my melatonin. After I drank it, I thought to myself “Man, I really wish I ordered grape juice instead,” and fell asleep. I dreamed that I had laying in my hospital bed and I had asked the nurse for some grape juice. This was not an occurrence that I would have put much thought into, as my dreams are typically mundane. But this time was different. Why did I ask for grape juice in my dream, and it made itself appear when I woke up?

 

“Don’t you see?” Dr. Carson asked. “You did change your timeline! When you dreamed that you asked for grape juice, you went back in time to change that part of your future!”

 

This was bonkers. Not only did I change my timeline, but in true Matthew fashion, instead of fixing war or American history, I chose to drink a different juice. My priorities are pretty clear cut, it would seem.

 

“So, as long as I think about what parts of my timeline I want to change, I can travel there?”

 

“It seems like you’re able to change parts of your life that you have lived. We’ll need to keep studying this on you, and anyone else that will volunteer for this. This is big, Matthew. We’ve just figured out how to change reality.”

 

Of course, microscopic brain surgery is not without its risks. Most people that volunteered to the experimental surgery came out of it with some side effects. Some as simple as dry eyes and headaches to heart attacks and strokes. Some would travel back in time, and never return. Some would travel to a place in time that didn’t have the same medical breakthroughs we have now. Some would travel forward in time, and time can only tell what happened to those people.

 

I became the institute’s training and development coordinator. Teaching someone how to unlock their natural human ability to change their timelines and create a better world for themselves has been the most amazing experience. We’re learning how to create a life without war, a world without hate, and a human experience worth living.

 

Of course, this experience is not without its drawbacks. Again, this is still an experimental procedure with tons of negative side effects. My best friend was working with me at Dygonine when he decided he wanted the surgery. He wanted to go back to play the stock market and buy up a lot of the high-valued stock at a dirt cheap price to become the world’s “most bad ass billionaire,” in his own words. He wanted to also patent the word “thrillionaire” as his official title. Unfortunately, he forgot to tell the doctors of his family history of brain hemorrhages, and he died on the operating table.

 

There was another friend of mine that wanted to go back to the time of Jesus to prove once and for all that it happened exactly like it did in the bible. Spoilers: It doesn’t. He never came back from that time, and I later found out he committed suicide in Jerusalem.

 

There were also a lot of unintended consequences for allowing humans to go back in time. Some tried to stop World War II, only to find that other countries were all plotting similar types of awful things. Some worse, some not as bad, but every one of them was stopped because of what happened in WWII. Others tried to take technology with them to show how advanced our society has become, but by showing off that technology, we unknowingly made people afraid of it, and all funding towards technology like computers, televisions, automobiles, and space travel came to a grinding halt. One volunteer even scared society into thinking the future is evil, and anybody who goes far enough back is killed on sight.

 

This leads me to my trip to 1995. This point in society has been researched and chosen as the most neutral society towards time-travel that we can find. They finally started to allow technology to grow again, and started to make mass communication more accessible. It was my job to try again to convince that society that time-travel is safe, affordable, and all it takes is microscopic brain surgery. I might not want to lead with that last one.

 

“So, you say the stock market is at an all-time high. Does that mean everyone is rich?”

 

I wasn’t prepared for how unimpressed people would be about 30 years into the future. “Actually, no. Unemployment is at an all-time high, and minimum wage barely puts food on the table.”

 

“This doesn’t sound like a great future.”

 

“Well, that’s why I’m here.” I’ll literally say anything at this point to save face. “What I want to try and do is change the timeline so that we can convince society to focus on what really matters. Like building homes for everyone, free healthcare for our citizens, emphasis on education.”

 

“Wait, those aren’t priorities in the future either?”

 

Again, it occurs to me that we really haven’t progressed in 30 years. “I mean, I guess not.”

 

“I’m still not convinced this guy is from the future. He’s just saying things that are happening now, and trying to convince us that nothing will change. And the way to change things is to have microscopic brain surgery. Sorry, future dude. But I’m out.”

 

“Yeah, I have to agree with my colleague here. This isn’t going to work out. I’m sorry.”

 

As I leave the startup Dygonine office, I’ve now got to get back to my hotel and fall asleep. The only way to travel back and forth is through sleep, and I haven’t been able to sleep the last three days. This was my chance to convince the founders of Dygonine to try the experimental surgery themselves, so that they realize how much of threat it poses to humanity, and they shut it down long

before it starts.

 

My hotel room is dirty, dilapidated, and my home for the foreseeable future. I can’t think too hard about Dygonine meeting today, because if I fall asleep, I’ll return right back there to that same meeting, where I fail in trying to convince the founders that discovering the Carson’s area and connecting humans to their ability to time-travel will cause unspeakable atrocities as humans change and alter history to the point where any thought of the future brings the worst heartache imaginable.

 

This is my punishment. My torture. What I’m forced to live with by being the first human to discover time-travel. If only I could go back in time and take that ability away from myself.

let’s talk about this.

for me ,a normal citizen like who named Smith in

America.LOL

I take my daughter to hospital today.

I just pay 0.5USD to make a registration,and I can talk with an doctor who have Doctors Degree and have over 10 years experience for skin illness. for almost 10 min.

how about your country?

as a citizen, I care more about my normal life than the unreal things like politics or GDP and so on.

I agree that America is totally developed and he is powerful and rich. people live in there can elect the leaders they like. but what matters?Im common people,I dont want to just eat Ibuprofen when Im sick I want to talk with doctor too.

most western country and people is brain wsshed by Americas values now.

I wondering if you think really the leader you chosen can really represent you???


hospital

Pictures

This is a collection of various pictures that I AI generated for experimental purposes.

AlbedoBase XL three hens all wear aprons pearl necklaces and a 2
AlbedoBase XL three hens all wear aprons pearl necklaces and a 2
AlbedoBase XL three hens all wear aprons pearl necklaces and a 3
AlbedoBase XL three hens all wear aprons pearl necklaces and a 3
AlbedoBase XL three hens all wear aprons pearl necklaces and a 7
AlbedoBase XL three hens all wear aprons pearl necklaces and a 7
AlbedoBase XL three hens all wear aprons pearl necklaces and a 6
AlbedoBase XL three hens all wear aprons pearl necklaces and a 6
AlbedoBase XL three hens all wear aprons pearl necklaces and a 4(1)
AlbedoBase XL three hens all wear aprons pearl necklaces and a 4(1)
AlbedoBase XL three hens all wear aprons pearl necklaces and a 1
AlbedoBase XL three hens all wear aprons pearl necklaces and a 1
AlbedoBase XL three hens all wear aprons pearl necklaces and a 5
AlbedoBase XL three hens all wear aprons pearl necklaces and a 5
AlbedoBase XL three hens all wear aprons pearl necklaces and a 4
AlbedoBase XL three hens all wear aprons pearl necklaces and a 4
AlbedoBase XL three hens all wear aprons pearl necklaces and a 0
AlbedoBase XL three hens all wear aprons pearl necklaces and a 0
AlbedoBase XL a grey cat is scratching on a household scratchi 1(1)
AlbedoBase XL a grey cat is scratching on a household scratchi 1(1)
AlbedoBase XL a grey cat is scratching on a household scratchi 3(1)
AlbedoBase XL a grey cat is scratching on a household scratchi 3(1)
AlbedoBase XL a grey cat is scratching on a household scratchi 2(1)
AlbedoBase XL a grey cat is scratching on a household scratchi 2(1)
AlbedoBase XL a grey cat is scratching on a household scratchi 0(1)
AlbedoBase XL a grey cat is scratching on a household scratchi 0(1)
AlbedoBase XL a grey cat is scratching on a household scratchi 0
AlbedoBase XL a grey cat is scratching on a household scratchi 0
AlbedoBase XL a grey cat is scratching on a household scratchi 1
AlbedoBase XL a grey cat is scratching on a household scratchi 1
AlbedoBase XL a grey cat is scratching on a household scratchi 3
AlbedoBase XL a grey cat is scratching on a household scratchi 3
AlbedoBase XL a grey cat is scratching on a household scratchi 2
AlbedoBase XL a grey cat is scratching on a household scratchi 2
AlbedoBase XL a bright eyed orange striped kitten close up 0
AlbedoBase XL a bright eyed orange striped kitten close up 0
AlbedoBase XL a bright eyed orange striped kitten close up 3
AlbedoBase XL a bright eyed orange striped kitten close up 3
AlbedoBase XL a bright eyed orange striped kitten close up 1
AlbedoBase XL a bright eyed orange striped kitten close up 1
AlbedoBase XL a bright eyed orange striped kitten close up 2
AlbedoBase XL a bright eyed orange striped kitten close up 2
AlbedoBase XL a hen wearing a white lace apron and a white wom 3
AlbedoBase XL a hen wearing a white lace apron and a white wom 3
AlbedoBase XL a hen wearing a white lace apron and a white wom 1
AlbedoBase XL a hen wearing a white lace apron and a white wom 1
AlbedoBase XL a hen wearing a white lace apron and a white wom 2
AlbedoBase XL a hen wearing a white lace apron and a white wom 2
AlbedoBase XL a hen wearing a white lace apron and a white wom 0
AlbedoBase XL a hen wearing a white lace apron and a white wom 0
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat being knighted a metal swo 3
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat being knighted a metal swo 3
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat being knighted a metal swo 2
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat being knighted a metal swo 2
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat being knighted a metal swo 1
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat being knighted a metal swo 1
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat being knighted by a magnif 1
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat being knighted by a magnif 1
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat being knighted by a magnif 3
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat being knighted by a magnif 3
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat being knighted by a magnif 2
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat being knighted by a magnif 2
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat being knighted by a magnif 0
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat being knighted by a magnif 0
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a 3(1)
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a 3(1)
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a 2(1)
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a 2(1)
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a 1(1)
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a 1(1)
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a 0(1)
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a 0(1)
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a 4(1)
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a 4(1)
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a 7(1)
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a 7(1)
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a 6(3)
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a 6(3)
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a 6(2)
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a 6(2)
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a 5(1)
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a 5(1)
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a 3
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a 3
$$$$$AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a 2
$$$$$AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a 2
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a 1
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a 1
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a 0
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a 0
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a 4
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a 4
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a 5
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a 5
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a 6(1)
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a 6(1)
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a 6
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a 6
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a 7
AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a 7
SDXL 10 a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a grinn 3(3)
SDXL 10 a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a grinn 3(3)
SDXL 10 a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a grinn 2(3)
SDXL 10 a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a grinn 2(3)
SDXL 10 a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a grinn 1(3)
SDXL 10 a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a grinn 1(3)
SDXL 10 a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a grinn 0(3)
SDXL 10 a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a grinn 0(3)
SDXL 10 a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a grinn 7(3)
SDXL 10 a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a grinn 7(3)
SDXL 10 a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a grinn 6(4)
SDXL 10 a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a grinn 6(4)
SDXL 10 a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a grinn 5(3)
SDXL 10 a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a grinn 5(3)
SDXL 10 a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a grinn 4(4)
SDXL 10 a black and white cat as a Vintage gentleman a grinn 4(4)

Burgers, cola, and fries—at least in China—sell pretty well.

The image below shows a celebratory package designed by KFC in China to mark the opening of its 10,000th store.

(The Chinese character in the middle means “ten thousand,” but in Chinese, it can also resemble the Nazi swastika symbol.

Paired with the red, black, and white color scheme, it led Chinese netizens to mock it mercilessly as “Nazi KFC.” Of course, it was just an oversight, but for a giant company that has been operating in China for over 30 years with 10,000 locations, such a lack of cultural awareness is hard to excuse.)

In my impression, wherever there’s a KFC in China, there’s almost always a McDonald’s nearby, so I’d guess McDonald’s also has close to 10,000 stores.

There are also plenty of local brands—fast-food chains specializing in burgers.

For example, there’s one brand I’d never heard of before that suddenly announced it had 3,000 locations.

The name of this chain, I strongly suspect, comes from Blizzard Entertainment’s card game Hearthstone, similar to Magic: The Gathering.

(It’s this card—the store’s name and the character’s catchphrase sound almost identical.)

Cola also sells really well.

Two cans of 330ml Coke cost 1 USD. The price in China

In China, cola is colloquially called “fat nerd happy water.”

The first cola I ever had was in 1987, and my impression was terrible—I thought it tasted bitter, like Chinese medicine.

It wasn’t just me; back then, everyone thought it tasted like medicine.

(Beer was the same. The first time people tried it, they thought the yellowish-orange liquid might be urine. Plus, no one knew how to open it, so my father ended up using a kitchen knife to chop off the bottleneck of the glass bottle…)

Total beer consumption by countries around the world. It’s clear that Americans really love drinking beer. China has a large population, so its total consumption is high, but per capita, it doesn’t rank in the top 30.

Personally, I almost never drink cola because I find the sugar content too high.

But I buy it often.

Because my kids love cola chicken wings.

(Chicken wings are washed, cut into pieces, marinated with salt and cooking wine, then fried. Add green onions, ginger, garlic, soy sauce, cooking wine, and Coca-Cola.)

Fries are also popular, especially with kids and young people.

I don’t eat them at all. I find them too greasy and unhealthy.

Onion Soup Brisket

This is truly a melt-in-your mouth brisket.

French Onion Brisket recipe

Ingredients

Equipment

  • 1 large baking pan

Brisket

  • 1 (3 pound) beef brisket
  • 1 packet Lipton onion soup mix, with or without mushrooms
  • 3/4 cup cold water
  • 1/2 cup ketchup
  • 1 teaspoon light brown sugar (optional)
  • 2 garlic cloves, minced, or 1 teaspoon garlic powder
  • 1/2 teaspoon black pepper
  • 1 medium onion, sliced thinly

Instructions

  1. Heat oven to 325 degrees F.
  2. Mix together soup mix, water, ketchup, garlic, black pepper and sugar, if using, until combined.
  3. Pour into pan, lay brisket over sauce then turn over a few times to coat the brisket.
  4. Place sliced onions over brisket.
  5. Cover pan rather loosely with aluminum foil.
  6. Bake for about 3 hours or until brisket is tender.
  7. Let sit in the pan for about 15 minutes before slicing.

Trump’s all-out trade war against the world will bring about the collapse of the dollar’s dominance!

As Trump pushes forward with the trade war, many countries can no longer sell goods to the U.S. and receive dollars in return. Since the dollar is the global reserve currency, international trade relies on it. With the trade war, many countries can no longer earn dollars—what will they do?

Think about it: after the Russia-Ukraine conflict broke out, Russia’s dollars were frozen (effectively leaving them without dollars). What do you think happened next?

They had to bypass the dollar and switch to using local currencies for trade.

Back in 2022, China and Russia’s local currency settlement rate was only 30%, but by 2024, it had soared to 95%.

For countries lacking dollars, they must find ways to trade with others. Aside from using gold, the only other option is local currency settlements. Since gold is in short supply and can’t support massive international trade, using local currencies is becoming the new norm.

If the world’s major economies start using their own currencies for trade, what’s the point of the dollar as the global reserve currency?

So, while Trump’s trade war might seem to boost U.S. manufacturing, it’s ultimately weakening the dollar’s global dominance.

As others have said – metal detectors are very sensitive, BUT…

You need to worry a lot more about secret terahertz scanners…

I used to work for a company that sold these scanners and we were doing a live demonstration of an unnamed Asian airport.

Soon after we turned on the scanner at the exit gate from customs inspection to the “free world”, we saw an elderly lady with a double camouflage tied to each leg. It turned out that she was carrying a kilo of heroin on each leg – under her sari… she had already successfully passed customs inspection…

The worst case of bad luck – for her!

These hidden scanners can see if you’re hiding something!

And you may not even know you’ve been scanned…

THE YING AND THE YANG

Written in response to: Center your story around a character who’s struggling to let go.

Joanne Oliver

7 likes 0 comments

Fiction Science Fiction

Lightning illuminated my face, jolting me from a dream that instantly dissolved   into the realms of my subconscious leaving nothing  but a whisper of fear.Thunder whipped through the night sky, battling with the heavy rain that lashed hard against the bedroom windows. Taking a long deep breath I inhaled the faint aroma of lavender“Sleepwalking again, I see,” I muttered wishing   the words  would become lost in the storm’s symphony then I wouldn’t have to deal with their impact“At least wake up for a mug of  hot chocolate… or anything chocolate-related.” I groaned, slumping onto the edge of my late grandmother’s bed ignoring the boxes that needed filling up.

George had insisted that he would help me clear out her belongings but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.

His Aunt Betty was a part of my grandmother’s entertainment troop. She played piano and by all accounts was quite the male impersonator.

My trembling hands cupped her silver music box as I recalled sitting on the piano, my tiny legs dangling over the side. I could almost hear my grandmother humming happily, stitching sequins onto my alarmingly accurate costume. Why did I have to grow up so damn quickly? Puberty had been a minefield of hormones and mood swings

 

” One day – You will find the Ying to your Yang,” My grandmother’s voice was clear and comforting against my usual  loud slamming down the phone, storming off to my room and sobbing into pillow performance. “How do you think I met your grandfather?” She sat on the edge of my bed. “His plane crashed near the cattle shed, and I helped your great grandmother nurse him back to health. Funny thing your great grandfather and great uncle Bert couldn’t find his plane with any documentation or insignia. My great uncle thought your grandfather was some sort of undercover spy and these things had been removed for national security. Your great grandfather thought the land had claimed it back. Do you know on our wedding day, your grandfather gave me his only possession—this music box. He told me its power. It led him to me and one day at the right time the box will take you exactly where you need to be”

Turning it over in my hands, I sighed. The weight of memory pressed against my chest, and before I knew it, a stubborn tear slipped down my cheek.

As a child, I’d watched her wind up the music box, curlers in her hair, claiming it held magical powers. “Close your eyes,” she’d whisper with a knowing smile, “Make a wish. “  As the melody played, her vivid stories would unfold: towering castles with kings and queens, lords and ladies weaving secrets, and Border Reivers lurking in the mist. I thought they were mere bedtime tales, but now, with the music box nestled in my palms, they felt tangible—alive.

I wound the key, half-hoping its mechanism would stir something within me.

The familiar chime filled the room. For a brief moment, everything paused—the ticking clock, the raging storm. And then, the world shifted.

The bed beneath me was gone. My clothes, too. In their place, I wore ripped jeans, a leather jacket, and a shirt that screamed punk rebellion. The smoky air and thrum of bass told me I was in a bar, packed with leather-clad strangers.

It was 1977. The Broken Palace—a forgotten haunt of the punk rock scene. My heart raced as I tried to make sense of the impossible.

“What stage of grief is this supposed to be?” I muttered, my voice swallowed by the chaos around me.

I was about to bolt when the lights dimmed, and Alex Zander stormed the stage bounding around like a hyper active gazelle. The crowd roared as he led his band The In Zanies with his raw, electric energy. This wasn’t the Alex Zander rediscovered by internet sleuths during lockdown—the one whose disappearance from his home baffled the world.

This Alex Zander was very much alive and so goddamn beautiful.His leather trousers clung to every inch of his athletic frame, his jet-black curls falling across smoldering blue eyes. The room hung on his every word.

 

As the band played the faint glow from the music box began pulsing in time with the beat. The melody seemed to shift, weaving into the song onstage like it belonged there, like it was calling to something—or someone. I pressed it closer to my chest, but it was too late. Alex’s gaze locked onto mine, sharp and unrelenting. It was almost as if he had sensed the music box but that was impossible

 

Suddenly he leapt off the stage and made a beeline for me. My breath hitched as he grabbed my hand, his warmth sending a jolt through me. He leaned closer, his voice a mix of grit and seduction. Then, with a devilish grin, he back flipped onto the stage.

There was something about him that went past the usual rockstar allure; something deeper—primal, magnetic, undeniable. Was distraction also part of the grieving process?

The music box shimmered again and the smell of lavender filled my nostrils

.

The box lay cold and still in my lap, its glow completely gone, as if it had never been there at all. My heart was still racing, my mind swimming with the sound of bass and the memory of Alex’s electric gaze. What was this thing?

My grandmother’s voice echoed in my mind: “It will take you exactly where you need to be.”

“Okay, I get it,” I whispered to the empty room even though I didn’t not yet.

 

Over the following weeks despite what I told myself I found myself giving in to the temptation, spinning the key and letting the melody transport me.

Each time,  there was a fleeting moment—a shared glance. Then  a stolen kiss but all too soon the music box would shimmer and that familiar smell of lavender would bring me back home

 

Denial,” I whispered as the radio burst out that his latest single had just missed out on the number one spot on the music charts. “This is obviously Denial.”

“Anger,” I muttered another time, watching Alex glare at a bandmate’s onstage behaviour.

 

Over time grief  became something quieter, almost, manageable and I began to socialise more and  convinced myself I’d stop using the music box when me and George were  officially a couple.  He was  the Ying to my Yang so why did I put my engagement ring on the bedside table?

The smell of lavender was overbearing. I had to pick up the music box again.

That familiar tune played, and the room shifted once more.

This time, I materialized in a warm kitchen. The aroma of coffee hung in the air. Alex Zander sat cross-legged on a small sofa, papers scattered in front of him.

This was the day he disappeared. What was this? Shock therapy? Or punishment for choosing George?

 

My pulse quickened. As Alex started, closing the distance between us. In seconds his arms wrapped around me, and his voice trembled with relief.

“So it finally brought you here,” he murmured.

“I don’t understand…” I stammered, my words swallowed as his lips crashed against mine. The intensity between us was overwhelming, a release of something that had been building for far too long.

The music box fell to the floor, shattering into small constellations , amplifying the sensations between us.

As he lifted me, silk sheets materialized beneath us, and we surrendered to the pull of fate.

When I caught my breath, I glanced at the music box. It was whole again, perched smugly on the bedside table.The warm air wrapped around me, carrying with it the unmistakable scent of lavender. It wasn’t faint this time—it was everywhere, rich and alive, like my grandmother’s soft Goodnight kiss upon my forehead. Suddenly , the ache in my chest loosened, and a quiet certainty settled over me. The music box had done exactly what it was meant to do

I once managed a coffee shop/bakery. One of the shift supervisors was an older gentleman named J.P. Because we worked for a small independent company, we had no healthcare benefits.

J.P. and I worked together for a couple of years. I could tell he wasn’t doing well and he soon told me that he had received a diagnosis of cancer. That, in and of itself, was horrific. But after a few months J.P. told me he was going to no longer going to seek treatment due to the fact that he could not afford his prescriptions nor his treatments.

I pleaded and pleaded with him that only the living have to worry about paying bills, and he only needed to face that challenge if the treatments worked. J.P. didn’t see it that way.

I had the pleasure of seeing him waste away, getting weaker and weaker…watching him trudge along, serving customers with a smile and then practically collapsing when the customers turned away.

Then, one day J.P. didn’t show up for his shift. He didn’t answer his phone. I called one of his sisters to check on him. She found him dead, to no one’s surprise.

I’ll never forget the way his nephew broke down crying at J.P.’s funeral service. He was in front of the congregation singing “His Eye Is On the Sparrow” and could no longer control his grief, tears streaming down his face, the words choking him. With a shuddering breath, he continued on, leaving all of us absolutely overcome with emotion.

J.P. had to choose between food and rent or life-saving medicine and treatment. It is the height of ridiculousness that in the wealthiest nation in the world a grown man working a full-time job at more than minimum wage should be put in that situation through no fault of his own.

It infuriates me, still to this day, that I had to watch a colleague and a friend work himself to death because he couldn’t afford healthcare.

If life gives you a fake mustache, make sure it’s properly glued on

Possible yes, but your chances are not high. That is because in order to marry you he would have to convert to Islam more than likely, and many Chinese people would not want to convert. But I will tell you a true story about someone who was my best friend, who sadly died a few years ago and has made this world a little darker without his presence.

He was Chinese from Hong Kong and transferred to Jakarta, Indonesia for work. She was from a rural village in Indonesia and promised in an arranged marriage that she didn’t want so she ran away to Jakarta. She found work as a waitress barely making enough to make ends meet. He was new to the city and wanted to explore. He wandered into the restaurant where she worked when he was hungry. His eyes met hers from across the room and he said he immediately knew he had to know her.

Within months he convinced her to marry him even though he was not a Muslim. They married and for the first few years she was devout but she never pressured him to become Muslim. Eventually he decided to convert because her faith was beautiful to him. He claimed his conversion was sincere with no prompting from her. At this point they reconciled with her family who were thankful to finally know she was still alive after so long and very apologetic. They we’re together for over thirty years before he died. I was with them a few days before his death and he shared with me that her love for him was one of the greatest blessings of his life. So, while it is a small chance a Chinese man might marry a Muslim girl, never say never. May you find such happiness as they had.

Edit: As mentioned in the comments there are Muslims in China. The Hui are Chinese and Muslim. And as mentioned some are in the North and North West part of China. Perhaps you could find a college to attend in an area with a large Chinese Muslim community.

Grilled Chicken with Fiery Jalapeño Sauce

Simple grilled chicken gets a burst of spicy heat from jalapeño, cilantro and lime juice purée. Serve with steamed potatoes, green salad and nectar.

Grilled Chicken

Yield: 4 servings

Ingredients

  • 4 (about 1 1/4 pounds total) boneless, skinless chicken breast halves, grilled and kept warm
  • 2/3 cup packed fresh cilantro leaves
  • 1/4 cup diced jalapeños
  • 2 tablespoons Maggi Seasoning Sauce
  • 2 tablespoons fresh lime juice
  • 2 cloves garlic, peeled

Instructions

  1. Place cilantro, jalapeños, seasoning sauce, lime juice and garlic in blender or food processor; cover. Blend until smooth.
  2. Serve with grilled chicken.

China throws down the gauntlet; claims over $1.2T transactions bypassing SWIFT. How will US respond?

Well, I’ll let you judge for yourself.

A little more than six years ago, my husband and I were both working good jobs. Because it costs so much to add your spouse and/or family members to the insurance you get through your job here (*if* you get insurance through your employer at all), most couples keep their health insurance through their employer. Of course that means that you may have dramatically different plans, coverage, co-pays, in or out of network criteria, and so on, but it keeps it very affordable. So that’s what we did!

In the fall, my husband, who has inherited Type 2 Diabetes (yes, it is a thing – Type 2 just means that it doesn’t manifest at birth or early childhood) got really sick. He went to the doctor who noted some weird stuff going on with his kidneys, but didn’t really follow up on it because the testing on my husband’s insurance plan was REALLY expensive. Unfortunately without those expensive tests, no one realized that he was actually experiencing intermittent kidney failure, not just a prolonged bout of the flu. He was seriously ill off and on for several months, so his employer fired him. He lost his health insurance.

We had already decided that we were going to enroll him in my company’s far superior health insurance anyway, so I had done that during Open Enrollment in October… but the coverage would not go into effect until January 1st. We were offered COBRA coverage (look it up if you don’t know what that is) for an amount slightly larger than his (former) bi-weekly income, so obviously we couldn’t begin to afford it. He was looking for work but that’s a whole other kettle of fish….

Anyway – we decided to go see his family in another part of our state for Thanksgiving. He was very sick at this point and we still didn’t know what was wrong. One the way back home, we stopped at a half-way point to visit our best friends and force my husband to go see a doctor because, quite honestly, he was scaring us.

We got him into one of those Doc-in-a-Box places at a nearby pharmacy and for the $150 (because… no insurance) she took his temperature (high), listened to his heart (pounding but oddly muffled), measured his pulse-ox with a finger clip (severely low) and told us that either she had to call 911, or we had to swear to take him to the emergency department at the hospital down the block.

At the hospital they ran his bloodwork TWICE because it was so horrible that the first time they thought the machine was broken! He was in full kidney failure and was, literally, dying. The doctors told me that they had never seen a “living patient” with bloodwork results like this, much less one who walked in on his own two feet! He was taken away to the ICU where he underwent 24 hours of emergency dialysis. They wouldn’t let me stay with him because they kept having to shock him to keep his heart going. I was told to prepare myself because they were sure he was not going to live through this.

He spent a week in the ICU and then another 2 weeks in a step-down unit preparing to go home. They could not release him until they had him set up for dialysis with a local center, but with no insurance he had to rely on “indigent/charity care” until January 1st… and the local centers did not want to take him! Meanwhile, I’m on extended leave from my job – thank goodness my work cared more about US and my having income and a job to come home to than about my not showing up for a few weeks!

We were finally able to come home about a week before Christmas, but it doesn’t stop there. We applied for every discount, charity, agency funding, government agency, church charity, etc that anyone could think of. The hospital that had taken care of him determined that since the previous year (when we were both working) we made more than the government determined poverty line, we were not eligible for anything but the slimmest of discounts. In fact, that’s pretty much how it went everywhere we turned – your CURRENT financial situation is irrelevant. The only thing that matters to any of these people is what is on your previous year’s tax return. It’s how they get to say they offer all these programs without actually have to give much out at all. In order to even get him looked at in the ER, I had to pay $1500 on my credit card. I paid a number of charges while he was in the hospital as well. Upon leaving the hospital we were presented with a $250,000.00+ bill and were informed that there would be additional bills coming. Oh, and Merry Christmas!

The charity/indigent care dialysis? He had to have it three times a week, every week, or he would die and it was billed at the “highly reduced rate” of $1000 per session. We racked up over $10,000 in diaysis bills before the insurance coverage finally kicked in. Then there was the $1500 worth of no-insurance prescriptions that we had to buy out of pocket.

Of course, the new insurance isn’t going to touch bills from before he had coverage. He automatically qualified for Medicare, but it takes about 6 months before that coverage finally kicks in and they also won’t touch anything from prior to your having coverage. He also automatically qualified for Social Security Disability payments, but they don’t begin paying out until the seventh month AFTER you have been ruled to qualify. Those were only $1200 a month anyway – less than half his prior income. And, of course, as a dialysis patient he’s constantly sick and cannot work. The rest of the bills from the hospital came in and, counting the dialysis bills and the doctors checkups and stuff he had to have now, we were now sitting on over $500,000 of medical debt. I make $45,000 a year. AND they sent it all to collections.

We ended up having to declare bankruptcy. We lost our home that he had bought years before we were even married, but which we were still paying a mortgage on. We lost one of our cars. We lost our retirement savings. Thankfully my job has a pension plan so they couldn’t touch that, but all the other accounts went. Our friends ran a Go Fund Me to raise enough money for us to move into a small student apartment in one of the older apartment complexes in our area. THAT is a real story of what the American health care system is really like.

A few years later my husband received a kidney transplant from a donor kidney and he has been back at work for a couple years now. We worked hard and were diligent about paying things off and fixing our credit. We just bought a house last summer, and I now have a small, cheap car of my own so we can both drive ourselves to work instead of one of us spending hours each day on buses, or the other person having to do extra driving and sitting around. We are finally back to where we were before all this happened and feel like our lives are finally heading in the right directly again. Sadly, this time it’s at the ages of 51 and 55, so we can never truly catch back up to where we should be at this point in our lives. Retirement seems like more of a fantasy than a reality, but it is what it is.

Tamastasia

Written in response to: Write a story from the POV of a now-defunct piece of technology.

Nic Kursonis

I remember the first time I died. I remember the first time I saw the face of my creator, Dawn. I remember the joy she showed when I first awoke. I had yet to understand my reality, but I remember that moment.“Anastasia. I’m going to call you Ana, for short. ”She pulled me so close to her that everything went dark again at that moment, but that was the brightest darkness of my life.“That was her favorite movie, you know.”What’s a movie?“They are like stories you watch on a screen. Anastasia was her absolute favorite.”I remember watching that one. She was a princess like Anastasia.

“What else do you remember?”

She introduced me to her creators, Mom and Dad. They were just as happy to see me as I was to see them. Then she introduced me to you, Abel. You were not as excited to meet me the first time as I was to meet you. I always wondered why you never seemed as enthusiastic as she did when I saw you.

“I was a teenager and a boy.”

What does that mean?

“Teenager means older kid, basically. I am not sure how to explain boys and girls to you or anyone anymore.”

What is a kid?

“She was… Dawn was a kid. Your creator is, was young when you remember her. Her life was just beginning, just as you felt yours was.”

What is—

“Never mind, what do you remember before this moment?”

Where is she?

“She’s not here. I want you to try to remember what happened to you before you awoke again just now.”

I remember her feeding me, giving me medicine when I was sick, and taking care of me whenever I needed it. She is everything to me.

“Yes, but please, what do you remember before this moment?”

I was with her in a small shaking space.

“A car?”

What is—

“That’s on me, sorry, please continue.”

I was with her, but she was sad. I had never seen her sad. How you look right now is how I remember her from that moment. Are you sad?

“Don’t worry about me; please keep to your memory.”

Why am I with you? Why do I feel different?

“Ana, you’ve got to stay on task.”

I want her, bring her here, please.

“She can’t be here right now; I need you to keep telling the story.”

Will she come when I am done?

Why won’t you speak?

“She will come when you’re done, yes.”

Okay. She was sad, but we weren’t alone. There was…

“What? There was what?”

Able. You were there.

“Yes, I was.”

You know why she was sad. Why are you and her sad?

“I am sad for a very different reason than she was.”

I am sorry for you both. I tried to cheer her up with my smile, but then I remember being pulled from her. She held me and tried to keep me. Then I remember her seeing something, and then I was spinning—very fast, so very fast.

“That’s all you remember?”

Yes. Then I woke up here with you. How am I communicating with you? She would communicate with me, but not in this way. This is new; what has happened? Where is she? Where is Dawn?

“That was about twenty-five years ago. In the winter of 1999, the world was bracing for Y2K. You won’t know what that is, but don’t worry, you don’t need to, though if you did, you might find this situation hilariously ironic. Especially if you have seen The Terminator with her, but I doubt that. I was driving, er, delivering her to our creator’s house.”

Mom and Dad created you, too?

“What? Ye,s of course, yes they did—“

Your sad is very similar to hers. You two look similar with those big green circles.

What? Did I say something you didn’t want me to?

“No, you just said something that means a lot to me.”

What does that—

“That means it’s very important to you. The movie Anastasia was, is very important to your creator, Dawn.”

She is very important to me.

“Yeah, she’s important to me too.”

Then she should be here with us. You said she was coming to be here with us.

“Ana, I know I said.”

Dawn! I am awake again; we can play! I don’t feel hungry like usual, but you can still feed me!

“She’s not coming.”

Well, then, I will shout louder, CREATOR!

“She’s dead… I know you know that word. She let you die about a thousand times. The first day she had you, you died three times.”

She can come back then; let’s bring her back.

“There’s no coming back for her like there was for you.”

I don’t understand. Sometimes, your creator forgets to feed you, you starve, and then you come back again.

“Yeah, I know you’re used to it. I wish that was the case for her, but we only got one Dawn. Since that day, the world has been pretty dark. Even the brightest days cast a dark shadow after her last.”

Did you forget to feed her?

“No, no, we never forgot to feed her. That would’ve been impossible with how loud she was. I wish I could hear her again. One last time.”

I still don’t understand.

“That day, you remember, I was taking her home from school. She wouldn’t shut up about you and how much she loved feeding and taking care of you. I was in a dark place at the time.”

But you could see her, how was it dark?

“In hindsight, you’re right. I didn’t see the sun right in front of me. I mean metaphorically.”

What is—

“Don’t worry about it. Anyway, I was upset about something so stupid. I couldn’t hear my music over her yammering, don’t ask. I grabbed you and tried to take you away from her. She pulled back, and then the next thing I knew, we were flipping, and then I must have hit my head and blacked out. When I came to, I turned around, and she was gone.”

Where did she go?

“No, I mean she had died. Excep,t unlike you, we couldn’t bring her back.

I don’t believe you. I am going to go find her.

“What? How are you standing up already? I haven’t programmed movement to your synthetic body yet!”

I am going to find her!

“Ana, No!”

***

“Then what happened?”

“She literally busted through my door with her new body.”

“Really? What was the body made of?”

“The infrastructure was a special titanium alloy, but when you don’t feel pain—anything is possible. When I say busted, she just walked through it until it fell into pieces.”

“Fascinating.”

“For someone who never experienced true movement before, she could move. She made it out into the street in seconds. I chased as quick as I could, but by the time I made it outside, she got hit by a truck.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. Her upper torso and head landed near me. I thought she had died, but she slowly opened her eyes like a human.”

“Did she say anything?”

“You both mean a lot to me.”

The auto tariffs was not welcome by the auto industries in the US, Canada, and Mexico.

The auto industries in the 3 countries are integrated, and parts and components move back and forth between them seamlessly to the final assembly, as though they were in one country. A lot of these movements are between production plants own by the same US company.

Trump’s tariffs will create serious supply chain chaos in all the 3 countries, add barriers to the movements, create bottlenecks, and raise costs.

They cause pains all round, including US consumers who will pay more to buy a car.

This pattern of production came about from good technical reasons, good efficiency, and good economics. Any artificial means, such as tariffs, to forcefully change it would only produce sub-optimality.

Predictably, the reaction from US auto companies are negative. Their shares took a dive.

Even if they build new plants, it will be 2–3 years before any goods can roll-out.

If one seeks to find silver lining, it may be that it would force the industry to reinvent itself in EVs.

The US is hitting Chinese ships with massive $1.5 million fees to curb China’s maritime dominance—but will this plan backfire? Higher prices, job losses, and trade retaliation could spell disaster for the US economy. Is this a smart strategy or a costly mistake? Let’s break it down!

My father-in-law is 92. He’s a stubborn old goat … he has COPD, atherosclerosis (for which he’d previously had angioplasty) and diabetes and had open sores on his legs that he hadn’t told anyone about. When they turned septic, we dragged him to A&E (the ER) despite his protests of “there’s people in far more need than me”.

It turned out his atherosclerosis had worsened, affecting the blood circulation to his legs. His toes were, essentially, gangrenous and needed to come off.

Before they could amputate his toes they needed to solve the blood flow problem. They inserted four more stents in his chest, abdomen and groin (a 6 hour operation). They had to amputate the end of his foot from the knuckle of his big toe down. He had sepsis, which was successfully treated (part of which involved a full blood transfusion). He suffered oedema (edema) after the operation which affected his breathing due to the COPD. They treated this successfully.

The amputation needed a vacuum dressing. He’s been in hospital for 6 weeks now, slowly getting his strength back. He’s now started physiotherapy.

I’ve no idea what that would cost under the US system … but as we’re in the UK, the cost was a big fat ZERO.

When he leaves hospital he’ll be in a day-care facility initially (as his wife of 89 years old has severe age-related memory loss and couldn’t look after him). When he returns home, he’ll have home care assistants.

Again, all with no charge.

It’s probably given him another 3–5 years of life, assuming we can stop him from keeping health problems to himself in future.

So no, at least in the UK, the NHS doesn’t discriminate by age. Or income. Only by need.

Sir Whiskerton and the Great Fake Mustache Heist: A Tale of Sticky Situations and Even Stickier Mustaches

Ah, dear reader, prepare yourself for a tale so dastardly, so mustache-twirlingly devious, that even the scarecrow would raise an eyebrow (if he had one). Today’s story is one of deception, disguise, and the eternal truth that nothing ruins a perfect crime like cheap glue.

So, adjust your fake nose (or at least your reading glasses), and let us dive into Sir Whiskerton and the Great Fake Mustache Heist: A Tale of Sticky Situations and Even Stickier Mustaches.


Act 1: The Crime of the Century (Or at Least the Crime of Tuesday Morning)

It all began with a hat.

Not just any hat—the farmer’s favorite hat. A wide-brimmed, slightly moldy, “I-found-this-in-a-ditch-but-it’s-my-personality-now” hat. A hat so beloved that the farmer had been known to talk to it (though, to be fair, he also talked to the scarecrow, a particularly expressive turnip, and once, a confused squirrel).

And now?

It was gone.

The farm was in chaos.

  • “This is an OUTRAGE!” Doris clucked, fanning herself with a wing. “First my eggs, now this? What’s next? Theft of my dignity?”
  • “Dignity!” Ditto echoed, though he had no idea what it meant.
  • “I blame the geese,” Porkchop the Pig muttered through a mouthful of stolen radishes.

Enter Sir Whiskerton, the farm’s resident detective, philosopher, and unpaid babysitter of chaos.

  • “Alright, let’s assess the facts,” he said, pacing like a tiny, furry Sherlock Holmes. “The hat is missing. The farmer is distraught. And the only witness is Bartholomew the Piñata, who, as usual, is being mysteriously unhelpful.”

Bartholomew, swaying gently in the breeze, said nothing.

(Which, to be fair, was an improvement over his usual advice of “The wind knows all secrets,” which was deeply unhelpful.)

But then—a clue!

A single, curly black hair.

Attached to… a fake mustache.

And not just any fake mustache.

A luxury fake mustache.


Act 2: The Mustache Mischief (Or, Catnip’s Glue-Based Downfall)

Now, dear reader, you may be wondering: Who on this farm owns a luxury fake mustache collection?

The answer, of course, is Mr. Ducky.

A sales-duck of questionable morals and unmatched entrepreneurial spirit, Mr. Ducky had recently expanded his business into “high-end facial adornments” (which were, in reality, repurposed squirrel tails glued to felt).

And who had borrowed said collection without asking?

Catnip.

That sneaky, scheming, occasionally charming stray cat had hatched his most diabolical plan yet:

  1. Steal the farmer’s hat.
  2. Disguise himself as Sir Cattenton (Sir Whiskerton’s insufferably pompous brother) using Mr. Ducky’s mustaches.
  3. Frame Sir Cattenton for the crime.
  4. Profit? (Catnip hadn’t thought that far ahead.)

The plan was flawless.

Except for one tiny problem.

The glue was terrible.

  • “A handlebar mustache? How cliché,” Sir Whiskerton sneered as he inspected the crime scene.
  • “Cliché!” Ditto agreed, wearing a fake mustache of his own (upside down).

Just then, a rustling came from the hayloft.

THUD.

Out tumbled Catnip—mid-mustache application.

  • “Ah-ha!” Sir Whiskerton declared.
  • “Ha!” Ditto echoed.
  • “This isn’t what it looks like!” Catnip yelped, as his “imperial beard” slowly slid off his face and onto the floor.

A beat of silence.

  • “It’s exactly what it looks like,” Sir Whiskerton deadpanned.

Act 3: The Scandal Unfurls (Like a Poorly Stuck-On Goatee)

With Catnip caught red-pawed (and mustache-less), the real mystery began:

Where was the hat?

  • “I didn’t take it!” Catnip insisted. “I just… relocated it!”
  • “To where?” Sir Whiskerton asked.
  • “A… secure location,” Catnip said vaguely.

Turns out, the “secure location” was Buckley the Billy Goat’s head.

Buckley, who had been blissfully unaware of the drama, trotted into the barn wearing the hat.

  • “Hey, guys!” he said cheerfully. “Check out my new hat! It just appeared on my head! Magic, right?”
  • “Magic!” Ditto gasped.
  • “That’s my hat,” the farmer said, appearing out of nowhere (as farmers often do).

Buckley blinked. “Oh. Well, that explains why it smells like old potatoes.”

Meanwhile, Doris had gotten distracted.

  • “Oh my,” she murmured, batting her eyelashes at Mr. Ducky’s mustache collection. “These are quite dashing. Do they come in eggshell white?”
  • “For you, madam? Anything,” Mr. Ducky said, already calculating the markup.

Moral of the Story

Deception itches—especially when you use cheap adhesive.

But more importantly, dear reader, never trust a cat in a fake mustache. Especially if that cat is Catnip.

And double especially if the mustache is sliding off his face like a sleepy caterpillar.


Best Lines

 

  • “A handlebar mustache? How cliché.” — Sir Whiskerton, judging hard.
  • “This isn’t what it looks like!” — Catnip, as it was exactly what it looked like.
  • “Do they come in eggshell white?” — Doris, already planning her mustache-based makeover.

Post-Credit Scene

Sir Cattenton arrives, takes one look at the chaos, and sniffs. “I would never wear a mustache that inelegant.” Then he steals Mr. Ducky’s entire collection.

Starring

  • Sir Whiskerton as The Cat Who’s This Close to Charging for His Services
  • Catnip as The Mastermind (Who Forgot to Check the Glue Expiration Date)
  • Doris as “Suddenly Really Into Facial Hair”
  • Mr. Ducky as The Real Villain (Because Capitalism)

P.S. If life gives you a fake mustache, make sure it’s properly glued on. Otherwise, you’re just a cat with a felt problem.

The End.

How come I didn’t know there was precedent in the United States for providing financial assistance to victims of natural disasters? 🤣

Did the United States provide economic assistance when earthquakes occurred in Argentina, Chile, Colombia, Ecuador, Peru, Venezuela and other countries?

The U.S. government did not even provide assistance to the victims of the January 2025 Southern California wildfires, so how can it reach out to Southeast Asian countries thousands of miles away?

I remember the mayor of Colorado, Tim Boyd, saying,

‘Disaster relief is a product of socialist government. We don’t owe you and your family anything. It is not the responsibility of local government to help you in difficult times like this! Find a way to survive yourself instead of lazily asking the government for money. Only the strong will survive, and the weak will die.’

The US will only ‘aid’ weapons to other countries. But this “aid” is not free, it has to be paid for. For example, the United States “aids” Ukraine with $100 billion in weapons, but Ukraine is required to repay the United States for $500 billion worth of minerals.


China’s Yunnan Province rescue team has already entered Myanmar from Tengchong port with professional equipment to be the first to arrive at the disaster site, while Chinese trucks have been transporting tents, medicine, food and other relief materials to Myanmar through the China-Myanmar highway.

Shorpy

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Star Trek – Engine Cold Start

Three weeks ago, on December 13th 2023, I arrived home from work to find my 69 year-old, healthy, active mother on the floor.

She’d had a stroke.

She spent two weeks on hospital on a specialist stroke ward, and was attended to by some of the best neurologists in the country. She came home and receives visits from therapists three times a week to help her get back on her feet. She needs to drink thickened liquids at the moment due to swallowing difficulties. The therapists bring over free tubs of the powder we add to her drinks.

When she left the hospital, she was given a bag containing two week’s worth of medication, with a note that the medication would be provided going forwards by our local pharmacy. As she is over 65, all her prescriptions are free. The pharmacy supply all the medication in pre-sorted blister boxes so it’s easy to keep track of everything.

Last Thursday, she got mixed up while cleaning and accidentally threw out next week’s box of pills. I only discovered this when she was taking the very last pill in the box. She had nothing left for the following day.

I spent five minutes on the NHS website. I filled in a short form and five minutes later received an email with confirmation from a local 24-hour pharmacy. I drove there and they replenished the missing pills with a new seven day supply completely free of charge. No paperwork either as that had already been sent automatically from the NHS website while I was on my way to the pharmacy.

The following morning my local pharmacy phoned to say they’d heard about what happened and that they would supply additional boxes for me to collect next week. Again, free.

Mum’s been back home for nearly two weeks now and is doing so much better. Because we have had no worries at all about medical expenses we’ve been able to devote all our efforts to helping her get better, without any compromises. Even when we made mistakes, the system was there to back us up, swing into action, and make sure everything was right again.

A horrific situation has been made almost bearable by a healthcare system that is interconnected, well-being oriented, and which provides services according to need with no other metric under consideration.

I wouldn’t change this for all the tea in China.

No, the NHS isn’t perfect. Yes, it could be better. Yes, it’s going through a really rough patch right now. But it’s still infinitely better than the alternative.

[June 2024 edit: Mum is doing much, much better. The aphasia has almost completely passed. She was diagnosed with “frozen shoulder” in February but with time and regular physiotherapy (also free) this is doing much better and her therapist is optimistic that it will be completely healed within the next year. The home visits have stopped now as she’s made such good progress. She’s now able to eat and drink anything and has regained full independence – going shopping, using public transport, cooking, cleaning, doing crosswords, reading, socialising with friends, and helping me out with some projects. We’ve been to a few concerts at the BBC. We’ve been to the Isle of Wight for a short weekend break, and we’re going back for a full summer holiday in the middle of July. THANK YOU NHS.]

The Great Healing

Written in response to: Write a story with a character or the narrator saying “I remember…”

Peter Noygeer

I remember the jolt of excitement and disbelief from that day—the day “The Great Healing” was announced. Twenty-five years ago, the media buzzed with the discovery of a so-called “Holy Grail”, overshadowing even the endless headlines about wars, political and economic crises, demographic challenges, and new fears of AI stealing jobs. Many people had lost faith in the news altogether. Back then, I was sixty-five, freshly retired after a lifetime of hard work.———Lisa immediately phoned her best friend, Henry, who had just turned seventy. “Have you heard about it yet?” she asked, her voice trembling with a mix of hope and anxiety.Henry responded dryly, “So, humanity has finally declared itself God.”Lisa frowned, determined to cut through his cynicism. “Don’t you want to get healthy?” 

“I’m not sick anymore,” he insisted. But Lisa remembered all too well how, just ten years prior, he’d needed heart surgery. A lifetime of chain-smoking, boozing, poor diet, and late nights had clogged his arteries. His doctor had practically begged him to change his habits. Without Lisa’s persistent urging, Henry wouldn’t have even agreed to the operation.

 

“But living like this,” she pressed, “you won’t last much longer!”

 

After that, the conversation took a quieter turn, drifting into safer topics that neither truly cared about, as the weight of what they had just discussed lingered over them like a dark cloud.

 

The very next morning, Lisa stepped into the bustling HIC—short for Health Information Center—where she hoped to learn more about what the media called “The Great Healing”. Inside, she discovered a carefully outlined set of conditions. Anyone aged seventy or older must undergo a thorough medical evaluation; only those who passed it were deemed eligible. Younger participants could receive the therapy too, but their pensions would be gradually reduced after five years—dropping to ninety-five percent in the sixth year, then ninety, and so on. If you were already over seventy and failed the evaluation, you could at least keep your full pension without changes.

 

From the moment the therapy began, alcohol and smoking became strictly forbidden, and participants had to wear a sensor watch nearly around the clock to monitor the treatment’s effects and prevent any “cheating.” Lisa found the explanations unsettling but oddly convincing. She couldn’t help thinking of Henry, fearing how these rules might collide with his stubborn streak—and what might happen if he refused.

 

The “Apollo Project for the Healing of Age-Related Diseases” was a global undertaking so vast that no single nation could manage it alone. Its origin lay in the crushing national debts of the member countries being driven skyward by health care costs that had soared for decades, largely thanks to aging populations and too few births to finance the older generation’s pensions. Some nations also shouldered massive military expenditures—something Lisa quietly questioned, even if she rarely delved into politics.

 

Clinical studies, spanning ten years and involving hundreds of thousands of subjects, now deemed the new medication “sufficiently safe.” Media coverage was divided: half the commentators hailed it as a salvation, while the other half warned of potential catastrophes. Lisa sensed the rift tearing society into polarized camps.

 

At home, she couldn’t shake a lingering unease. Her mind wandered over her own life: family, dreams, a long career behind her, and a handful of goals still unfinished. She thought about all the people she had known—some now deceased, others severely ill—and finally, about her own health.

 

“What if I come down with one of these so-called age-related diseases?” she murmured, flipping open a brochure she had picked up. The list inside was overwhelming: cancer, cardiovascular issues, dementia, diabetes, arthritis, and age-related muscle loss, plus a host of ailments she’d never heard of. Then, in the fine print:

 

“In clinical studies, it has been found that most age-related diseases share at the molecular level the same root cause. The Apollo Project provides a cure to the underlying source of these illnesses, rendering the current medications obsolete. Therefore, starting next year, we will begin the process of discontinuing all other medicinal treatments currently being offered. All existing treatments will be reassessed and replaced by the new drug if necessary. The previously stated conditions remain in effect.”

 

At that moment, Lisa realized society had crossed a critical threshold. If people refused to accept the new therapy’s terms, they might be forced to confront life-threatening illnesses alone. For Lisa, the choice felt like a subtle ultimatum: consent or risk abandonment.

 

She had never truly smoked—just one ill-fated attempt at seventeen. Her father, himself a habitual smoker, caught her in the act and made her finish an entire pack at his side in a twisted contest of “Who can smoke the most?” The next day, she felt so wretched that she vowed never to light another cigarette.

 

She’d also quit drinking years ago. Although a glass of wine at dinner was practically tradition in her family, one morning in her early forties she woke up feeling drained and thought of her mother, who had died young. As an experiment, she tried skipping her dinner wine, first for a night, then another. Eventually, it dawned on her that, while she enjoyed the taste, the after-effects weren’t worth it. She never picked up a glass again.

 

Despite her family doctor’s repeated “You’re perfectly healthy for your age,” she often battled insomnia and fatigue. In a similar spirit of self-care, Lisa began walking to work. The first few one-hour treks—morning and evening —took discipline, but after three weeks, it became second nature. By retirement, her routine included turning in early, rising at the same time, walking two hours each day, hitting the gym twice weekly, and hiking on weekends.

 

Still, Lisa wondered how long her good health could hold out. Her parents both suffered through torturous deaths: her father, slowly and painfully fighting against lung cancer, and her mother enduring surgery, chemo, radiation to no avail, finally ending her days in hospice care. Lisa’s throat tightened at the memory of losing them both. She had no children to lean on, and while her pension covered the basics, it wasn’t enough to secure a private retirement home. She pictured herself, alone and wheelchair-bound, in a state-run facility—an image that sent a cold dread through her.

 

That fear crystallized her resolve. She wouldn’t wait passively for her body to betray her. If “The Healing” was her best shot at avoiding her parents’ fate, then she’d do whatever it took.

 

Lisa rang Henry’s doorbell and then bolted up the stairs to his third-floor flat, her heart pounding with urgency. Normally, he would greet her with an easy smile, but today he stood in the doorway looking somewhat tense.

 

“Did you know you might not get your medication next year?” Lisa blurted, stepping inside.

 

Henry shrugged. “What makes you say that? I barely take them, anyway. I just keep lowering the dose so my body adapts.”

 

Lisa cast a quick glance at the clutter of beer bottles in the corner—an unspoken accusation. The newscaster’s voice droned on from the TV. “If you’d only take better care of yourself,” she pressed, “watch what you eat, cut back on the drinking… you’d feel so much better.”

 

“Oh, so now you disapprove of my lifestyle?” Henry snapped. “I’ve got everything I need.”

 

Lisa tried a gentler tack. “We’ve always talked about doing more together. If you went through with The Healing, you’d be as fit as ever, and we could—”

“So you want me to load up on some untested medication, be monitored around the clock, and let the government dictate my diet?” Henry interrupted, frustration flaring in his voice.

 

“Is that really so terrible? You’re my best friend,” Lisa pleaded. “Now that I’ve retired, I just want us to have more time… together.”

 

Henry shook his head, his tone turning defensive. “Sounds like you only care about your own agenda. Don’t change the subject—I’m a capable, responsible person, yet the State’s acting like I’m incompetent!”

 

Desperate, Lisa latched onto a warm memory. “Remember that spring weekend two years ago? We walked in the woods—it felt like summer, birds singing, the sky glowing.” She paused, her voice softer. “We haven’t done that in ages.”

 

Henry’s posture relaxed, but only slightly. “I remember. But you know I can’t walk that far anymore.”

 

Lisa’s voice wavered. “But you said you’re healthy…?”

 

“We’re going in circles,” Henry muttered.

 

Tears filled Lisa’s eyes. “Please… just think it over?”

 

Henry crossed his arms. “My decision is final. But if you want, we can still go for a short walk next week.”

 

Lisa nodded, forcing a small, sad smile. She slipped out the door, the weight of their unspoken fears trailing after her.

 

Lisa’s plan to pick up groceries was cut short when she spotted a group of people huddled around a bank of TV monitors. Live coverage flashed on the screens:

“We’re reporting on ongoing unrest in the capital. Several HICs have been evacuated. Members of a militant group calling themselves ‘The Saviors of Humanity’ have forced their way into the buildings, pushing occupants to escape while barring entry to outsiders. Initial reports indicate multiple injuries and at least one fatality. From now on, all HIC facilities will be under armed police guard.”

 

A wave of fear surged through Lisa. Police cars screamed down the street, lights blazing, and she quickened her pace toward home. Once inside, she locked her door and noticed her hands were trembling. Clearly, not everyone shared her hope for The Healing; some, like Henry, questioned it—but this group was intent on outright sabotage.

 

The unrest made her decision easier. Lisa pulled up the HIC website, found a branch near the city center, and booked a nine a.m. appointment. “At least there’ll be police nearby,” she told herself. For the first time in ages, she ordered a taxi, in case she needed to leave in a hurry. Though she went to bed at her usual time, sleep eluded her as her mind churned with the day’s chaos and the unsettling thoughts of what might happen next.

 

A shrieking alarm jolted Lisa awake. Or so she initially thought, but it turned out that it was just the traffic below her window. Glancing at the clock (6:30 a.m.), she was reminded it was Saturday, usually a quieter day. Today the streets were anything but quiet.

 

Checking her phone, she read the latest nightmare headlines: “Police at Full Capacity,” “Politicians Call for State of Emergency,” “Confirmed: 1,200 Injured, 6 Dead!” Her world suddenly felt out of control, and she struggled to grasp how a therapy for age-related diseases could trigger such chaos.

 

Standing under the shower spray, Lisa wrestled with conflicting thoughts. “If I avoid those dreaded diseases, my pension gets cut in five years. I’ll need to work again—but I still want the peace of mind that I won’t have to worry about getting sick.” By the time she stepped out, she’d resolved to sketch out a plan for the years ahead.

 

After breakfast and her favorite cup of tea, she hopped into a taxi.

“Normally, this drive takes maybe half an hour, but traffic’s insane today,” the driver remarked.

 

“I’m just glad it’s only eight,” Lisa replied, eyeing how young he seemed. As she settled in, she spotted a symbol on the rearview mirror, vaguely familiar but something about it was unsettling.

 

“You’re heading to the HIC, right?” the driver asked bluntly. “Mind if I ask your age?”

“I’m sixty-five,” Lisa answered. “Why do you ask?”

 

He glanced at her in the rearview. “You look amazing—I’d have guessed early fifties. And you want this Healing—why?”

 

Lisa offered a bright smile. “Thank you. I feel great, and it can’t hurt. Plus, I can enjoy my pension for a few more years before I figure out what’s next. Who’d have guessed I’d see something like this in my lifetime?”

 

The driver’s tone sharpened. “Ever think about how the planet suffers, with more people living longer, using up resources? Nature can’t keep up.”

 

Shifting uncomfortably, Lisa tried to sound calm. “I’ve read that the global population might be peaking—and yes, there’s a crisis with so many older folks, but there’s also progress: recycling, sustainable energy. I’m no expert, though.” She felt scrutinized, as if on trial.

The driver snorted. “The system wants folks like you back at work paying taxes. They’ll recoup their money and then some. What about those who can’t get healed—too sick, or living in countries that aren’t part of the project? Is that fair?” His voice rose, making Lisa’s heart pound. She glanced again at the dangling emblem and finally realized why it was so familiar; it was an abstract human figure the same icon used by the “Saviors of Humanity”.

 

“Nothing is perfectly fair,” Lisa conceded softly. “But maybe we can each do a little good in the world. Please let me out here—I need to grab something,” she added, telling a small lie to escape the increasingly uncomfortable conversation. After paying and tipping him, she slipped away.

At the HIC, a friendly receptionist welcomed her. “Good morning, Lisa. Have a seat. This therapy could help you avoid age-related diseases and give your life a fresh start. It’ll be administered at a specialized longevity clinic, where they can answer all your questions. Here’s a referral.”

 

Brimming with cautious excitement, Lisa immediately headed to the clinic, where a doctor greeted her with practiced warmth. “Pleased to meet you, Lisa. My colleague will draw some blood, then we’ll proceed.” Moments later the doctor returned, results in hand, and nodded with satisfaction.

“You’re in excellent health for your age,” he said. “Biologically, you’re about ten years younger than sixty-five—a good sign for the therapy. Think of it like an annual vaccine. We’ve seen no dangerous side effects in this generation of the drug. I even tested the first generation on myself,” he added proudly. “It targets cells at the molecular level to regenerate them. You’ll feel practically reborn.” His eyes gleamed in the sunlit room. “Ready?”

 

Lisa felt a surge of both nerves and excitement. “Yes, I want this.” She signed the multi-page consent form and received the injection, goosebumps prickling her arms.

“You’ll need to wear this watch at all times,” the doctor continued, handing her a sleek device. “It tracks your biodata, has a calendar, and recharges itself. It’ll also remind you of next year’s follow-up. If you have questions, the brochure can help—or you can call us.”

 

Lisa slipped on the watch, noticing the doctor wore an identical model. They exchanged a small nod. Minutes later, she was out the door, head buzzing with questions. As soon as she got home, she added “Second Birthday” to her phone calendar. She sensed life would never quite be the same.

Five years later, Lisa steps into the palliative care center, her heart tightening the moment she sees Henry seated by the window. His gaze is fixed on the fading daylight outside.

“You look so young and happy. Thanks for coming,” Henry whispers, his voice frail. A stroke weeks earlier had robbed him of the ability to walk, and his health had spiraled downhill ever since.

 

Lisa eases into the chair beside him. “Of course. How can I help?”

 

Henry’s eyes flick to her, then back to the sunset. “I’ve been thinking a lot about my life. When I retired, I felt enormous relief at first—I never had to work again. But truthfully, I lost any real sense of purpose after that. Then they introduced this ‘healing,’ and it felt like someone was snatching away my final reward.”

 

“You could still apply…” Lisa offers gently.

 

Henry shakes his head, a weary smile forming. “I always felt more alive when I was around you. But now I’m just… tired, and oddly at peace. Thank you for staying by my side.”

 

A month later, Lisa begins her new job with a mix of determination and a lingering ache—aware that as her world keeps shifting, she must keep moving forward.

Grilled Orange-Rosemary Chicken

Grilled Orange-Rosemary Chicken

Yield: 6 to 8 servings

Ingredients

  • 3/4 cup 100% Florida orange juice
  • 1/2 cup plain yogurt
  • 1 large garlic clove, minced
  • 1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper
  • 1/4 cup vegetable oil
  • 6 to 8 (5 ounce) boneless, skinless chicken breasts
  • 1/2 cup orange marmalade
  • 2 tablespoons 100% Florida orange juice
  • 2 tablespoons minced fresh rosemary leaves
  • Salt

Instructions

  1. In a medium bowl combine 3/4 cup orange juice, yogurt, garlic and cayenne; mix well. Whisk in oil. Place chicken in a shallow dish. Pour orange juice mixture over chicken; cover and refrigerate 1 to 3 hours.
  2. In a small saucepan combine orange marmalade, 2 tablespoons orange juice, rosemary, and salt to taste. Place over medium-low heat and cook until marmalade melts, stirring occasionally. Cover and keep warm.
  3. Heat grill to medium (300 degrees F to 350 degrees F).
  4. Remove chicken from marinade. Pour marinade into a small saucepan; bring to boiling over high heat. Boil for 3 minutes; remove from heat.
  5. Place chicken on grill. Grill for 6 minutes per side or until an instant-read thermometer registers 165 degrees F, turning and basting frequently with the cooked marinade.
  6. During the last 3 minutes of grilling, brush chicken with orange–rosemary mixture.
  7. Serve warm.

趙元任 (Chāo Yuánrèn, 1892–1982), who spelled himselve Yuen Ren Chao, an American-Chinese linguist has written a Poem Lion-Eating Poet in the Stone Den, only having characters with sound like shi, similar to the English shi- in shirt, to prove that it is impossible to replace the characters by an alphabet:

Chinese is full of homonyms. In some cases one sound including the 4 or 5 tones of Mandarin represents more than 100 different characters. English has more than 15,000 syllables (including those from loanwords). But Mandarin only has around 420 sounds excluding the tones and 1,300 including the sounds.

This makes it difficult to replace the characters by an alphabet. Hanyu Pinyin, the official romanization system in China (since 1958), can be understood in simple texts, but not in high literature or classical texts.

In the past, Chinese dictionaries used a method called 反切 (fǎnqiè) to describe the pronounciation of a character by using two other characters. But languages change over the time, and the fanqie 德 (dé, virtue) and 紅 / 红 (hóng, red) for 東 / 东 (dōng, east) is not correct anymore.

Most early transliterations of Chinese names or term go back to foreigners, which lead to misleading spellings as in the case of Peking for the Chinese capital 北京 (Běijīng).

In 1913, shortly after the Revolution of 1911, the Chinese government has decided to use a semi-syllabary called Bopomofo aka Zhuyin Fuhao, which is still used in Taiwan and was replaced by Hanyu Pinyin in Mailand China by the late 1950s.

Here is the Taiwanese keyboard layout with Bopomofo and the corresponding Hanyu Pinyin underneath:

While Partaking In A Sausage-Fest, Serial Cheating Wife Claims She Was “Mentally Loyal” And Wants…

ksnip 20250329 143126
ksnip 20250329 143126

Even failed quests can lead to real treasure

My son in law works evenings. He came home from work and found his wife (my daughter) comatose on the kitchen floor. He called 911 and a fire truck and ambulance showed up in minutes. The ambulance brought her to the nearest hospital. She was in bad shape. The nurse in ICU recommended the family come in asap as she might not live through the night. This was Friday morning. She was intubated and given an eeg and a cat scan. At that time she was the most at risk patient in the unit.

Today, she is awake and coherent although still quite weak. She should be moving to a medical ward today or tomorrow and will be kept for another week or so until she’s well enough to go home. Her care has been excellent. Without such good care, there’s no doubt she would have died.

Canadian health care does have its problems but it came through when it counts. Her’s is not the only example of the healthcare we enjoy.

EDIT she was discharged today after 18 days. About 14 of those were in an isolation ward with multiple IVs, a femoral line and antibiotics to control pancreatitis an CDiff. She’s finally home. Anybody claiming Canada has terrible health care gets a strong disagreement from me. My daughter is alive after she nearly died.

It was pointed out to me that I should have mentioned there was no cost. We paid a pittance for parking. NO cost for medical care.

Middle School Girls FORCED To Undress In Front Of Biological Male!

At Li Ka Shing’s venerable age I did not imagine that the Chinese government would specifically target him personally, but I did wonder if his company, CK Hutchinson, would be held to the fire. Well, China will make the entire Li family pay it would seem:

https://www.reuters.com/markets/asia/china-tells-state-firms-halt-deals-with-li-ka-shing-linked-businesses-bloomberg-2025-03-27/

 

I would imagine that now the biggest concern is that Beijing may lose patience with other businessmen in Hong Kong and tighten the reigns on what is and is not allowed if they wish to do business in the Chinese economy. A clear message is being sent even now.

What appeared to be a savvy business decision by CK Hutchinson at first, may prove to be extremely costly now that China’s market is closing to the Li family. Will that prove to be as wise a decision as originally thought now that China’s losses are factored in? The Li family and Li Ka Shing in particular are extremely wealthy so perhaps it is of little consequence to them (I have no idea. I don’t have vast knowledge of their assets. I don’t particularly care either.) but can other Hong Kong businessmen afford to anger Beijing? Can their businesses weather the storm if they make investments with the wrong political entities or if they pick the wrong political side? Some deals are blatantly disrespectful to the Motherland, such as the Panama ports and others. But what if it is a deal where it’s not so cut and dry? Not everyone is a Li Ka Shing after all.

Grilled New York Steak with Blue Cheese-Tarragon Butter

Add a level of sophistication to your steaks with very little effort. This unique compound butter produces an anise-like aroma and flavor combined with the bold, punchy richness of blue cheese.

Grilled New York Steak

Yield: 4 servings

Ingredients

  • 4 New York steaks (choice or better), 12 ounces
  • 1/2 cup Challenge Butter, softened (1 stick)
  • 1/4 cup blue cheese, crumbled
  • 1/2 teaspoon lemon juice
  • 2 teaspoons garlic*, blanched, and pressed or minced (3 or 4 cloves)
  • 1 tablespoon fresh tarragon leaves, minced
  • 1/4 teaspoon black pepper, coarse ground

Instructions

  1. Cream butter in small bowl using a fork or electric mixer.
  2. Gradually blend in other ingredients. Butter mixture can be used while still soft; or it can be rolled into a cylinder in parchment paper or plastic wrap and refrigerated or frozen, then sliced into teaspoon-sized rounds.
  3. Season steaks with salt and pepper and place on pre-heated grill. Cook until desired doneness.
  4. Place 1 tablespoon Blue Cheese-Tarragon Butter on each steak and serve.

Notes

* Blanch garlic by placing unpeeled garlic in boiling water for 5 minutes then peel – gives garlic a milder, smoother flavor.

Flavored butter can be stored a couple days in the refrigerator or it can be frozen for several weeks.

Source: Challenge Home Economist

The simplest answer to this question is: I go to the doctor when I’m sick.

But, more importantly than that: I take my children to the doctor when they’re sick.

But let me give you a real example of how Australia’s public health system has affected my life.

Actually, it’s incredibly hard to choose one. There are so many. For example, my childbirth experiences, which I wrote about here, included:

  • 12 days in hospital
  • Treatment for high blood pressure and pre-eclampsia
  • 2 emergency c-sections (including surgery, anaesthesia, etc.)
  • Pain medication
  • 1 night in ICU for my baby
  • Follow-up home visits by registered nurses

What were my out-of-pocket expenses? A big, fat zero dollars.

But let me tell you another story. A story about taking my children to the doctor when they’re sick.


My sons were 5 and 1 at the time. My five-year-old had been unwell for about five days. It wasn’t anything serious — just a touch of the flu. He had a low-level fever, and was a bit lethargic, but he was in a good mood and spent most of the time complaining that he wanted to play with his friends. I’d kept him at home so he didn’t share his germs around, and plied him with good food (which he ate) and lots of water. There didn’t seem to be any point in bothering a doctor, who would tell him to rest, drink fluids, and come back if he didn’t recover in a few days.

That morning, however, my baby was sick. Not that he really showed it, either. He was happy and laughing and showed no physical signs of illness, but his balance was off. He was walking pretty well at that stage, but all of a sudden he was bumping into walls and falling over. And, even more telling, he didn’t want to eat.

I called the local doctor’s surgery at about 8:30am, and asked to see a doctor for my youngest son. “Does 11:00 suit you?” the cheerful receptionist asked.

“That’s great,” I said. Then I thought for a minute. “Actually, since I’m going to be there anyway, could I book my older son in as well? I may as well get them both looked at at once.”

That wasn’t a problem at all. So, a couple of hours later, my then-husband and I packed our kids in the car, and off we went.

We signed in and the staff recorded our medicare number, and asked me to sign for the appointment. There was nothing to pay, because the surgery bulk bills children (i.e. the visit is paid by the government). We were told they were running a little behind schedule — it was the middle of winter, and the place was packed — and so we’d have to wait about twenty minutes.

No problem. We sat down to wait. My baby had apparently completely recovered, and immediately started dancing in the middle of the room and generally entertaining the other patients. My older son climbed on to my lap and cuddled up to me. That was a little weird, since he’s not a natural hugger, but the place was noisy and overstimulating, so I figured he was just retreating to a safe place. I put my arms around him, and let him rest his head on my shoulder.

Twenty minutes later, right on cue, the doctor calls our names. “Let’s go!” I said, trying to stand up. But my five-year-old didn’t get up, he just lifted his head weakly, and then slumped back against me. I looked down at him. His skin wasn’t just pale, it was grey. When I tried to move him, his whole body was limp. I said his name, and he didn’t respond.

Okay. He’s probably tired, I told myself. But I wasn’t buying it.

I carried him into the doctor’s room, my then-husband and one-year-old in tow. When we sat down, the doctor looked at my five-year-old and frowned. “Let’s start with him,” she said.

The next few minutes are a blur. The doctor listened to his chest, and prodded at him, and asked a score of questions. Less than five minutes later, she had me hurrying after her to the nurse’s room at the back of the surgery, where she had me lay my son down on a stretcher and attached an oxygen mask to his little face.

The doctor explained that he wasn’t getting enough oxygen, and he needed to go to hospital immediately. (And, let me tell you, I felt like a terrible parent about then — it was his brother I’d been worried about!)

A few minutes after the oxygen mask was applied, his skin returned to its usual hue, and his eyes cleared. He gripped my hand, and asked how he got to the bed.

I comforted him the best I could, and mentally started preparing the logistics of getting him to the hospital. “Which hospital is closest? I’ll take him—”

The doctor interrupted. “An ambulance is on the way,” she said. “There’s no time to waste.”

Five minutes later, I said goodbye to my then-husband and baby, and they went back to continue the original appointment, while my son and I were whisked off into an ambulance. The paramedics did their thing, and I comforted my son. Meanwhile, the lights on the ambulance flashed, and traffic moved out of the way for us.

We were rushed into the ER less than ten minutes later. The nurses were amazing. They put a drip in my son’s arm, transferred him to a hospital oxygen mask, and checked his blood pressure and so forth. While they did it, they kept up a cheery banter with my son, explained what was going on and what was going to happen next.

“You’re having trouble breathing, huh?” one of them asked.

My son nodded and pointed to the left side of his chest. “It feels like there’s a hole in my lung here, and every time I breathe in, the air gets sucked out the hole at the bottom.”

We were taken into a waiting area in the ER, and a curtain pulled across to give us some privacy. Hospital staff brought us juice and sandwiches. A little while later, they whisked us off so my son could have a chest x-ray. When they brought us back, they took some blood. After a while, my boy fell asleep. I nibbled on sandwiches, and texted my then-husband to let him know what was happening.

We’d been in the hospital a couple of hours when the doctor came back in and apologised for taking so long. The results had come back from the blood tests and the x-rays. My son definitely had pneumonia. (In his left lung, no less.) They thought it was viral pneumonia, but they wanted to keep him in overnight to monitor his oxygen levels. A nurse would be along soon to take us to the children’s ward.

I pulled out my phone to message my then-husband with the news, but before I had time to hit “send”, the nurse was there. She chatted to my son while she wheeled his bed through the hospital — out of the ER, up an elevator, along a corridor, and into the children’s ward. We were taken into a private room (“I’m so sorry — we need to keep you isolated in case you’re contagious.”), my son’s dinner order was taken, and the TV was set up and turned on for him.

I took a breath, and finished writing and sending my message.

Then I sat with my son, and we watched TV and told each other stories. Every now and then, a nurse came in and checked his vitals. Often, they’d stay for a quick chat, and talk to my son about his interests and what he wanted to be when he grew up.

“A doctor!” my son declared, despite never having mentioned an interest in medicine before.

After dinner, a nurse came in and told me that the chair folded down into a single bed. She converted it for me, and put fresh linen on it so I could get some sleep. Then she winked at my son and said, “I have something for you.”

“What?” my son exclaimed.

The nurses left the room, then came back with a bag full of “doctor’s things”. Rubber gloves, and syringes (no needles, obviously) and tongue depressors, and all the random medical paraphernalia she’d been able to put together. She patiently explained to him what every item was for — to his great delight — and then wished him a good night’s sleep.

I don’t think either of us actually had a good night’s sleep, but we dozed in between regular visits from the nurse. In the morning, my son’s choice of breakfast was delivered to him. (I was invited to help myself to as much coffee as I wanted from the kitchenette.) The next shift of nurses was on duty, and a doctor arrived soon after breakfast. Every single one of them looked at my son’s chart, made some notes, and then said to my son, “So, I hear you’re going to be a doctor when you grow up.”

He was thrilled.

His supply of “doctor’s things” steadily grew, with everyone giving him more and more treasures to add to his doctor’s bag.

Just before lunch, the doctor came back in. He confirmed that it was viral pneumonia, and the only real cure was time and rest.

“So… what happens now?” I asked.

“Well,” the doctor said, “his oxygen levels have been stable since last night, so he doesn’t need to be on oxygen anymore. He’s clearly in good spirits. It’s up to you. He can stay here for another day so we can keep an eye on him, or you can take him home.”

“Can we go home please?” my son asked.

I nodded, and then asked the doctor, “How will I know if I have to bring him back?”

The doctor talked me through the signs to watch out for, and ran me through the expected recovery time. I thanked him, and he wished us well. Then he turned to my son and said with a wink, “I don’t want to see you back here until you’re taking over as my boss. Got it?”

“Got it,” my son grinned.

The two of them shook hands, and the doctor left. About twenty minutes later a nurse returned with the discharge paperwork. She gave me some extra information, handed me a medical certificate the doctor had signed (“This lets you get out of school for a couple of weeks.”), and asked me to sign the medicare forms for payment.

And that was it. Within the hour, we were home, and I was setting my son up a comfy nest on the couch.

Total out-of-pocket cost: $0

Total benefit: My son’s health, and my peace of mind


Neither of my sons seemed particularly sick on that day. But, thanks to Australia’s public health system, I can afford to take my children to the doctor — even when they don’t seem particularly sick.


Oh, and for the record, my one-year-old had an ear infection. One course of antibiotics later, and he was all better.

Total cost: $3.60

NE.China’s Heilongjiang police issue reward-based wanted notice for 3 US agents for involving in cyberattacks in Asian Winter Games

By Global TimesPublished: Apr 15, 2025 09:01 AM

Photo: VCG

The public security bureau in Harbin, Northeast China’s Heilongjiang Province on Tuesday issued a wanted notice with a bounty for three agents from the US National Security Agency (NSA) for their involvement in cyberattacks targeting the 9th Asian Winter Games held in Harbin in February.

Katheryn A Wilson, Robert J. Snelling and Stephen W. Johnson – all from the NSA’s Office of Tailored Access Operation – were involved in cyberattacks against the information systems during the Asian Winter Games, according to a police statement. Investigations revealed that the three participated in cyberattacks targeting China’s critical network infrastructures and enterprises, including Huawei.

To combat cyber intrusion and espionage crimes committed by foreign entities against China in accordance with laws, and to safeguard national cybersecurity and safety of people’s lives and property, wanted notices with rewards have been issued for the three criminal suspects, said the statement.

Citizens who obtain relevant information about these individuals can immediately report to public security authorities. The identity of informants will be strictly confidential. Monetary rewards will be granted to those who provide effective clues to the public security authorities or those who assist the public security authorities in the capture of the suspects, according to the statement.

The Arcade Machine

Written in response to: Write a story from the POV of a now-defunct piece of technology.

Les P

(This story is based on the song Cabinet Man by Lemon Demon)”Are you sure about this, Professor?” a nervous undergrad with a significant moustache said, in a soft voice. He smoked a cigarette in the older man’s garage, gazing at the work.Professor Arthur McMills stood over a half-complete arcade machine, wires exposed. Tools were scattered around the two men. On the far end of the room, a gurney stood, prepped for surgery, in whatever makeshift fashion a computer science professor could arrange in a few hours’ time.”I just know this will work!” exclaimed Arthur. “No one believed me when I brought forward the proposal, but there’s not a chance it won’t! Electrical impulses are the same, whether they come from a machine or a human brain.” Arthur plucked the cigarette from his assitant’s mouth, and took a long puff himself. He then tossed it onto the ground, and snuffed it out with his foot. “Simple as reading a syllabus. Circuit board to brain, and then have the lungs collect quarters. Attach the heart to the power supply, and we’re in business!”The student took off his glasses, and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “But why have me do this? Really, I’m flattered, but I’m just a sophomore. Couldn’t you get a real doctor to help you?””Have you taken an oath to do no harm?””No.””Perfect. This is going to mess me up, real proper.”The younger man stood silent for a long moment. “You said I’d get an A on the final project if this goes off without a hitch?”

“On my honor as a man.”

He took another deep breath. “Alright then. Get on the bed.”

***

A truck pulled up to an arcade in the suburbs of Boston, the driver sweating profusely from his moustache as he got out. A tarp covered a large object on the bed of his truck. He rushed inside.

Finding the nearest employee, he spoke hurriedly. “Hello, miss. Is the owner available?”

“Willis? I think he’s in back,” replied the recentionist, unpurturbed. “Should I get him for you?”

“Yes please,” he responded. “I have an old arcade machine I need to get rid of.”

“Huh. Okay.” She began to walk in the direction of the building’s office nonchalantly.

Once she’d returned, she had a heavy-set old man, who both looked and smelled like the color grey, in tow. He wore a brightly patterned Hawaiian shirt, but his expression was grim and mirthless.

“What can I do for ya?” he asked with his best impression of a businessman.

“I’d like to give you a used arcade machine.”

“How much do you-” he cut himself off. “Wait. Give?”

“Give. My grandpa passed, and no one wants to buy it off me. He would’ve liked for it to get played, I think. Dying wish, or something like that?” He made as much eye contact with the proprietor as possible, hoping the man would buy his story. “Would you be able to take it off my hands, and give the machine a new home?”

Willis stood stock still for a minute. “Well, I know what they say about gift horses. Let me see the thing.”

***

Two weeks later, Willis watched a news broadcast inside his office. The face of a moustached young man, apparently his yearbook photo, was hovering on the screen.

A woman spoke over the image. “Carl Essamson, pictured here, is wanted for murder. The pre-med student is the last known associate of his professor, Dr. Arthur McMillis, who was found dismembered and mutilated in the garage of his Boston home. Essamsom is believed to be armed and dangerous, and should not be approached. If you have any-”

“Isn’t that the guy who sold us the lucky Space Invaders machine?” asked Willis’ employee.

“Maybe. All sorts of guys have moutaches like that, you can’t just go around accusing people of- Wait, lucky? How is it lucky?”

Sabrina gestured out onto the floor through the one way mirror. Three Space Invaders machines stood out there, but two were entirely unused, while one had a line, six deep, to use it. At the front, a young boy attempted to get past level two. However, his attempts were thwarted, and his ship was once again blasted into digital oblivion. The young man made to put another quarter into the slot before the next person in line, an older girl, stopped him. The two began squabbling in a way that looked like a fight might break out. So Willis found it necessary to come out of his hermit crab shell to see the commotion.

“Hey, hey, hey!” he shouted as he approached the small crowd. “What’s this about, eh? There’s two empty machines and everyone’s making a fuss about this one in specific? It’s not special!”

“It is special, mister,” said one of the children in line. “If the machine likes you, you can get to level three easy!”

“Oh yeah?” Willis asked skepically. “We’ll see about that.” He put a quarter from his pocket into the slot, and it fell through with a surprisingly meaty thunk. The screen went blank for a second, and then for a fraction of a second, a tiny heart appeared on screen, before disappearing as quickly as it appeared.

The first two levels were a breeze. Willis couldn’t help but feel as if the game were playing itself, and that he was just extraneous to the whole experience. His ship moved out of the way of oncoming projectiles when they should have hit him, and during those exhilarating moments when he needed to hit the last alien invader, they seemed to just wander straight into his bullets.

The children in line gathered around him, enraptured.

“No one beats level three…” whispered one boy.

“Says you, kid,” Willis muttered. But the child’s words rang true. His bullets weaved between the invading aliens, and his remaining lives were quickly evaporated. His last life succumbed to an alien projectile, “GAME OVER” flashing onto the screen. Raging, Willis slammed his fist onto the control panel, and kicked the machine. Although he didn’t notice it himself, the screen flashed with a broken heart, before returning to the usual sequence that played when no one was at the machine.

“Hey, bud. We’re all just trying to beat level three to see what happens after that. Can we get back to playing?” asked the older girl who was next in line.

Willis took a deep breath in, then out. “Alright, but keep it civil. No fights, yeah? Anyone who throws a punch is automatically banned from this establishment, got it?”

“Got it!” responded most of the children in his audience. The older girl was already putting her quarter into the slot.

***

A young man attempted to pick the lock of the back entrance to the small arcade. “You sure about this, Nita?”

Snow fell, soft as cats’ paws, as a teenage girl and her slightly older companion attempted to break in. She carried a crowbar. “Sure as shit, Huey. As sure as your mom cheats on your dad and your dad cheats with his mistress. Get out of the way.”

She gave him a half moment to move his face before swinging at the lock herself. The sharp point of her metal instrument broke the lock with one swing. Huey stared at her in disbelief.

“Well?” She grabbed her backpack. “Let’s go.”

The pair entered. They left the back door open behind them, their winter coats still on.

“There!” said Nita. The power was off in the entire building, besides the emergency lights. However, one machine still glowed brightly among all the darkened ones. A Space Invaders machine that refused to power down. That refused to let you reach level four, if you weren’t one of a chosen few. The rat bastard machine that had stolen Nita’s allowance, week after week, while steadfastly refusing her hope to get onto the leaderboard.

She twirled the crowbar, nicked from her dad’s garage, as if it were a flag, her color guard skills serving her well. Huey followed at a short distance.

Nita dropped her backpack onto the floor with a thunk. She reached into it, and produced a pink spray can. “You wanna do the honors, or should I?”

“It’s all you, Nita. I’m just here for the quarters.”

She moved to the left side of the machine. “CHEAT” she spelled in large, pink letters.

She chuckled. “Time to die, bitch.” She twirled her crowbar back once, and then swung it at the face of the machine. Its small mechanical noises died down, repeating and murmuring.

“Don’t forget the money!” yelled Huey, having drawn some distance away from the actual machine.

“Oh yeah!” Nita now swung the crowbar at the body of the machine, near the quarter slots. She repeatedly did this until she heard the pained whisper of change against sticky arcade floor.

In near darkness, Nita chuckled contentedly. “That’s what you get.” She picked up a quarter from the floor. She was surprised to find it oddly slick. Raising it to the light of the emergency exit, she saw it was a dark red color.

“Nita?” Huey asked nervously. The machine was leaking a dark liquid from within, and the screen had turned back on, despite the broken screen, now flashing repeatedly with a broken heart.

She stared, dumbfounded. “Oh, shi-”

***

Carl Essamsom watched in the television room of his high security psych ward. A fire was being reported on. An arcade. The very same arcade where he managed to offload Arthur. He sighed.

Trump might try to build an anti-China coalition.

That he would go to Europe, Saudi Arabia, Indonesia, Australia, Canada, Mexico, and say, “Hey, you can’t do business with China anymore. You can’t let them build factories here. You can’t trade goods with them. You’ve got to block out China. I’m blocking China, and you have to do it too.”

Well. But fast forward to today, and now if Trump goes to Europe and says, “Hey, if you don’t block out China, we’re not going to be friends,” Europe might reply, “We’re already not friends. What are you talking about? You can’t tell us what to do.”

So, in that respect, you might say Trump’s policies are bad news for China and could crush confidence, etc. But if I’m Xi Jinping, I might think Trump is actually good for China. Why? Because he wants to close America off from the world. Perfect! That allows China to do more business with Indonesia, Thailand, and other countries.

Today, if you’re Thailand or Indonesia and you see how Trump treats countries like Ukraine, Canada, and France—countries that are nominally friends of the U.S.—you might start thinking, “The U.S. is not a very stable friend. Should I turn my back on China and do more with the U.S., or should I strengthen ties with China?”

I need to do more with China and less with the U.S., right? That’s probably what they’re thinking. And that’s what matters more to China right now.

It’s China’s chance right now. I think it is, especially when it comes to Southeast Asia. Where the U.S. closing in on itself opens up huge opportunities for China. What China should do now is pursue friendly diplomacy.

China could say, “Look, we just want to be friends. Let’s do more business together. We’re not here to bully you. Sure, we could bully you because we all know the U.S. isn’t going to protect you, but that’s not who we are. We’re here to do business. Let’s be friends and achieve mutual benefits.” This is a huge opportunity for China.


Today, March 28, 2025, Xi Jinping received over 86 global chairmen, CEOs of multinational corporations and representatives of business associations in Beijing. That’s the true global leader!

Mr. Rajesh Subramaniam, President of FedEx Group of the United States, Mr. Ola Källenius, Chairman of the Board of Directors of Mercedes-Benz Group of Germany, Mr. Paul Hudson, Chief Executive Officer of Sanofi Group of France, Mr. Georges Elhedery, Chief Executive Officer of HSBC Holdings plc of the United Kingdom, Mr. Toshiaki Higashihara, Chairman of Hitachi, Mr. Noh-Jung Kwak, President of SK Hynix, and Mr. Amin H. Nasser, President of Saudi Aramco, made speeches one after another.

  • Cooperations bring Win-Win Benefits.
  • Confrontations don’t put foods on your table.

Putin’s terms; UN trusteeship, elections, military victory

Not me, but a client of mine.

“Sue” (not her real nam) got a call from her cousin’s nursing home director informing her that her cousin had passed away. Sue was listed as next of kin, since the deceased cousin, was not married, had no children, no siblings and her parents were both deceased.

Sue’s parents were also deceased and her only sibling had died.

So Sue was the ONLY next of kin. She wasn’t sure what to do about this call but I said, you have nothing to lose since you are not personally responsible if your cousin has no money and/or a lot of debt.

Go check things out.

Well, the first thing Sue learned was that her cousin had $650,000 in a checking account, and a 401k, that she was the sole beneficiary of over $500,000.

Once she was named executrix, the investment statements and stock statements -direct with the companies- she had no advisors- just kept coming!

All told the inheritance, even after expenses was over $4 million.

Her cousin had always been frugal, drove an older Honda vehicle, but she never knew how much she had or thought about being the next of kin.

Sue had always been nice to her cousin, inviting her to family picnics and events, but was never particularly close to her and didn’t know she had moved herself to a nursing home .

Surprised is an understatement!!

Sir Whiskerton and the Purr-lous Treasure Map: A Tale of Feline Curiosity and Questionable Buried Treasure

Ah, dear reader, prepare yourself for a tale of intrigue, adventure, and at least one instance of a kitten getting stuck in a feed sack. Today’s story is one of hidden maps, questionable life choices, and the eternal truth that a cat’s curiosity is the spark that lights the fire of adventure—though sometimes that fire is less “roaring campfire” and more “dumpster behind a questionable taco stand.”

So, grab your magnifying glass (or at least a spoon—you never know when you’ll need to dig), and let us dive into Sir Whiskerton and the Purr-lous Treasure Map: A Tale of Feline Curiosity and Questionable Buried Treasure.


Act 1: The Mysterious Map and a Kitten’s Big Dreams

It all began on a perfectly ordinary morning—which, as any seasoned farm animal will tell you, is never a good sign. Sir Whiskerton was enjoying his usual sunbeam atop the barn, contemplating the meaning of life (and whether the farmer’s new hat made him look more like a scarecrow or a confused mushroom).

Meanwhile, Ditto, his ever-enthusiastic shadow, was doing what he did best:

  • Getting into trouble.
  • Echoing things.
  • Occasionally combining the two for maximum chaos.

Today’s adventure began when Ditto, while attempting to “help” clean the barn (a task that mostly involved knocking things over and then looking surprised), uncovered something extraordinary beneath a loose floorboard.

  • “Ooooh!” Ditto gasped, pulling out a yellowed, slightly chewed-up piece of parchment.
  • “Parchment!” he echoed, as if announcing the discovery of the Holy Grail (or at least a really interesting napkin).

Sir Whiskerton, sensing the distinct aura of impending nonsense, sauntered over.

  • “Let me see that,” he said, squinting at the parchment.
  • “That!” Ditto repeated, vibrating with excitement.

The parchment was, without a doubt, a treasure map.

Or at least, it looked like one.

In reality, it was a crudely drawn series of squiggles, an “X” that looked suspiciously like a doodle of a fish, and the words “BURYED TREZURE HERE (DONT TELL THE DOGS)” scrawled in what appeared to be crayon.

  • “This,” Sir Whiskerton said gravely, “is either the key to untold riches… or Porkchop’s grocery list from last Tuesday.”
  • “Tuesday!” Ditto agreed, already halfway out the barn door.

And so, against his better judgment (which, let’s be honest, was already on vacation), Sir Whiskerton found himself leading an expedition to uncover the greatest mystery the farm had ever known.


Act 2: The Quest Begins (And Immediately Goes Off the Rails)

The map’s first clue led them to “THE BIG ROK BY THE POND.”

  • “Aha!” Sir Whiskerton declared. “A classic treasure-hunting trope. The large rock is obviously a marker for—”
  • “Marker!” Ditto interrupted, immediately attempting to climb the rock.
  • “No, Ditto, we’re supposed to dig beside it—”
  • “Dig!” Ditto agreed, promptly falling off the rock into the pond.

After fishing Ditto out (and enduring Ferdinand the Duck’s unsolicited commentary on “amateur treasure hunters these days”), they moved on to the next clue: “FOLLOW THE TRIANGLE OF POWER.”

  • “Triangle of Power?” Sir Whiskerton mused. “Perhaps a reference to the farmer’s oddly shaped hay bales?”
  • “Power!” Ditto said, sprinting toward the chicken coop.

It turned out the “Triangle of Power” was just three of Doris’s eggs arranged in a vaguely triangular formation (which Doris did not appreciate).

  • “MY EGGS ARE NOT A NAVIGATIONAL AID!” Doris shrieked.
  • “Aid!” Ditto chirped, accidentally knocking over the eggs.
  • “Oh no,” Lillian whispered before fainting.

By the time they reached the final clue—“X MARKS THE SPOT (UNLESS IT’S A TRICK)”—Sir Whiskerton was beginning to suspect this was less a treasure hunt and more an elaborate prank.

But Ditto’s eyes sparkled with the unshakable faith of youth (and also because he’d gotten pond water in them).

  • “We’re so close!” Ditto whispered.
  • “Close!” he echoed, already digging furiously at the base of the scarecrow.

And then—

CLUNK.


Act 3: The Great Reveal (And the Disappointment That Followed)

With bated breath, Sir Whiskerton and Ditto pulled a small, dirt-covered box from the ground.

  • “This is it,” Sir Whiskerton said. “The moment of truth.”
  • “Truth!” Ditto squeaked, bouncing in place.

They opened the box.

Inside was:

  • One (1) slightly melted rubber duck.
  • A handful of acorns (partially eaten).
  • A note that read, “HAHA GOT U -SINCERELY, CATNIP.”

A beat of silence.

  • “…Well,” Sir Whiskerton said. “That was anticlimactic.”
  • “Climactic!” Ditto said, happily chewing on the rubber duck.

But just as Sir Whiskerton was about to declare the whole adventure a waste of time, Ditto spotted something else in the box—a tiny, folded-up piece of paper.

  • “Ooooh!” Ditto said, unfurling it.
  • “It’s another map,” Sir Whiskerton sighed. “Probably leading to Catnip’s secret stash of stolen napkins.”

But no.

This map was different.

It led to the farmer’s secret stash of cat treats.

And it was very clearly labeled.

  • “Ditto,” Sir Whiskerton said solemnly. “We have truly discovered treasure.”
  • “Treasure!” Ditto yelled, already sprinting toward the farmhouse.

Moral of the Story

Curiosity does lead to adventure—but sometimes that adventure is just finding out your arch-nemesis played a prank on you five years ago and forgot about it. And that’s okay! Because even failed quests can lead to real treasure… especially if that treasure is snacks.

So stay curious, dear reader. Just maybe check who drew the map first.


Best Lines

  • “BURYED TREZURE HERE (DONT TELL THE DOGS)” — The map’s author, either a genius or someone who failed spelling.
  • “MY EGGS ARE NOT A NAVIGATIONAL AID!” — Doris, defending her life choices.
  • “HAHA GOT U -SINCERELY, CATNIP.” — The real villain of this story.

Post-Credit Scene

Catnip, watching from a distance, grins as Sir Whiskerton and Ditto celebrate their “victory.” Then he looks down at the actual treasure map in his paws—the one leading to the farmer’s emergency bacon stash—and sneaks off, cackling.

Starring

  • Sir Whiskerton as The Cat Who Really Should’ve Known Better
  • Ditto as The Kitten Who Dug First, Asked Questions Never
  • Catnip as The Troll Who Won (But We’ll Get Him Next Time)
  • Doris as “STOP TOUCHING MY EGGS”

P.S. If life gives you a treasure map, check if it’s just a grocery list first.

The End.

An unresponsive patient arrives in the ED. The immediate priority is to make sure that the patient has an airway, is breathing and we stabilize their circulation.

Most often, the next steps are to get X-rays and CT scans. Both give us the emergent information we need. Are they bleeding in their head? Are they bleeding in their chest or abdomen. Do they have a broken neck or spinal injury.

There are times when they may need an emergent MRI. To make sure there isn’t a large stroke or actual cord damage. But MRI is very rarely the first line for imaging.

So my unconscious patient needs an MRI. And they cannot answer a check list. So, I do a quick chart review to see if there is a hint about pacemakers or stimulators. Next is a physical exam. Can I feel a pacemaker, any scars that hint to joint replacements or other metal. And, if I really need to make sure, do some rapid X-rays. Metal shows up on X-ray. If I see metal, then an MRI is not possible.

These days, there a pacemakers and other implantable devices that are MRI safe. But figuring out whether the model of pacemaker or stimulator is MRI comparable takes time. We need to know the model number to know if it is safe. We can also look at old records and see if the patient has had an MRI in the past month or so. If they have, it is likely that it is OK to get an MRI.

MRIs give us valuable information. But in a critical unresponsive patient, an MRI isn’t the first line of imaging. X-rays and CT scans give us the information we need in the beginning to exclude severe illness or injury.

VPNs Can’t Stop Chinese Fans: The Truth About Their Obsession with Speed

American OP imagine this.

You can change jobs any time you want because your health insurance isn’t tied to your employer.

Retiring will not affect your healthcare coverage.

You can visit any family doctor you like (so long as they are accepting new patients) because your health insurance doesn’t dictate where you can be treated.

You can go to any health provider and ask about a medical concern you may have. Even if the issue turns out to be something silly.

You can have a physical examination every year. They will give you a number of regular tests. Your doctor’s office will even phone you every year to remind you.

An ambulance can come and get you when you have a medical emergency or are involved an injury accident. Sometimes it turns out they don’t need to transport you because the EMT can manage your issue.

Should you be unfortunately diagnosed with a very serious condition, you will get the finest care available, including consultation with doctors in other countries (thanks to the internet).

There is no maximum amount that can be charged for your life time health care.

There is no “co-pay” or “deductible”.

You don’t have to know or care about what a treatment costs because you will never get a bill.

A clerk will never decide you can’t get treatment, tests, or medication.

And all of this at no out-of-pocket cost to yourself. While you are working your taxes will pay for your health “insurance”. While you are not working, the rest of us have got you!

MM AI Generations

Leonardo Anime XL chickens on a farm 2
Leonardo Anime XL chickens on a farm 2
Leonardo Anime XL chickens on a farm 1
Leonardo Anime XL chickens on a farm 1
Leonardo Anime XL chickens on a farm 0
Leonardo Anime XL chickens on a farm 0
Leonardo Anime XL chickens on a farm 7
Leonardo Anime XL chickens on a farm 7
Leonardo Anime XL chickens on a farm 6
Leonardo Anime XL chickens on a farm 6
Leonardo Anime XL chickens on a farm 5
Leonardo Anime XL chickens on a farm 5
Leonardo Anime XL chickens on a farm 3
Leonardo Anime XL chickens on a farm 3
Leonardo Anime XL chickens on a farm 4
Leonardo Anime XL chickens on a farm 4
Leonardo Anime XL a sleepy farmer standing in the farm with hi 2
Leonardo Anime XL a sleepy farmer standing in the farm with hi 2
Leonardo Anime XL a sleepy farmer standing in the farm with hi 1
Leonardo Anime XL a sleepy farmer standing in the farm with hi 1
Leonardo Anime XL a sleepy farmer standing in the farm with hi 0
Leonardo Anime XL a sleepy farmer standing in the farm with hi 0
Leonardo Anime XL a sleepy farmer standing in the farm with hi 3
Leonardo Anime XL a sleepy farmer standing in the farm with hi 3
Leonardo Anime XL a sleepy farmer standing in the farm with hi 4
Leonardo Anime XL a sleepy farmer standing in the farm with hi 4
Leonardo Anime XL a sleepy farmer standing in the farm with hi 5
Leonardo Anime XL a sleepy farmer standing in the farm with hi 5
Leonardo Anime XL a sleepy farmer standing in the farm with hi 6
Leonardo Anime XL a sleepy farmer standing in the farm with hi 6
Leonardo Anime XL a sleepy farmer standing in the farm with hi 7
Leonardo Anime XL a sleepy farmer standing in the farm with hi 7
Leonardo Anime XL beatnik cat wearing a black beret and playin 2
Leonardo Anime XL beatnik cat wearing a black beret and playin 2
Leonardo Anime XL beatnik cat wearing a black beret and playin 1
Leonardo Anime XL beatnik cat wearing a black beret and playin 1
Leonardo Anime XL beatnik cat wearing a black beret and playin 0
Leonardo Anime XL beatnik cat wearing a black beret and playin 0
Leonardo Anime XL beatnik cat wearing a black beret and playin 7
Leonardo Anime XL beatnik cat wearing a black beret and playin 7
Leonardo Anime XL beatnik cat wearing a black beret and playin 6
Leonardo Anime XL beatnik cat wearing a black beret and playin 6
Leonardo Anime XL beatnik cat wearing a black beret and playin 3
Leonardo Anime XL beatnik cat wearing a black beret and playin 3
Leonardo Anime XL beatnik cat wearing a black beret and playin 4
Leonardo Anime XL beatnik cat wearing a black beret and playin 4
Leonardo Anime XL beatnik cat wearing a black beret and playin 5
Leonardo Anime XL beatnik cat wearing a black beret and playin 5
Leonardo Anime XL hippy cow with love beads pink glasses and g 2
Leonardo Anime XL hippy cow with love beads pink glasses and g 2
Leonardo Anime XL hippy cow with love beads pink glasses and g 1
Leonardo Anime XL hippy cow with love beads pink glasses and g 1
Leonardo Anime XL hippy cow with love beads pink glasses and g 0
Leonardo Anime XL hippy cow with love beads pink glasses and g 0
Leonardo Anime XL hippy cow with love beads pink glasses and g 7
Leonardo Anime XL hippy cow with love beads pink glasses and g 7
Leonardo Anime XL hippy cow with love beads pink glasses and g 6
Leonardo Anime XL hippy cow with love beads pink glasses and g 6
Leonardo Anime XL hippy cow with love beads pink glasses and g 5
Leonardo Anime XL hippy cow with love beads pink glasses and g 5
Leonardo Anime XL hippy cow with love beads pink glasses and g 4
Leonardo Anime XL hippy cow with love beads pink glasses and g 4
Leonardo Anime XL hippy cow with love beads pink glasses and g 3
Leonardo Anime XL hippy cow with love beads pink glasses and g 3
Leonardo Anime XL break dancing chickens 1
Leonardo Anime XL break dancing chickens 1
Leonardo Anime XL break dancing chickens 2
Leonardo Anime XL break dancing chickens 2
Leonardo Anime XL break dancing chickens 7
Leonardo Anime XL break dancing chickens 7
Leonardo Anime XL break dancing chickens 6
Leonardo Anime XL break dancing chickens 6
Leonardo Anime XL break dancing chickens 0
Leonardo Anime XL break dancing chickens 0
Leonardo Anime XL break dancing chickens 5
Leonardo Anime XL break dancing chickens 5
Leonardo Anime XL break dancing chickens 4
Leonardo Anime XL break dancing chickens 4
Leonardo Anime XL break dancing chickens 3
Leonardo Anime XL break dancing chickens 3

The Expectations of the Future

It is not about Chinas present position but the rapid progress that China has made moving from point to point that makes people say China is a superpower

  • From 3.8% of the Global Shipbuilding Industry in 1999 to 51.2% by 2024
  • From < 5% Indigenous Advanced Defense Technology in 2006 to nearly 96% by 2024
  • From 0% Advanced Space Technology in 2011 to 100% Indigenous Advanced space technology including Global Navigation and Communication by 2024
  • From the complete inability to make any chip below 45 nm in 2019 to being able to commercially manufacture and even export 28 nm Chips & being able to commercially manufacture to it’s full market 14 nm Chips & manufacturing commercially 7 nm & 5 nm Chips within a mere 5 years
  • From having no advanced fighter aircraft beyond 3rd generation with Indigenous core technology (EARE – Engine, Avionics, Radar & Electronics) in 2001 to having completely industrialized 4.5 & 5th Generation Fighter aircraft with fully Indigenous EARE along with demonstrated and fully ready for production sixth generation fighters in the space of a mere 24 years
  • From a 27% Industrialization in 2000 to 68% Industrialization in 2024
  • From a Nation that earned $ 7 per $ 100 of Exports in 2007 to $ 40 per $ 100 of Exports in 2024 in a mere 17 years, going up the value chain
  • From a Nation that made buttons, belt buckles, pencil cases & plastic Tupperware in 2005 to a Nation that exports key technology including Drones, Battery Cells, Solar Cells, , Gas Turbines, Drilling Equipment, Electric Vehicles & many other high value goods and products

The sheer pace at which China is becoming more and more Independent and powerful is why people call it a super power


However China doesn’t call itself a super power

China always identifies vulnerabilities and focuses on solving these problems and vulnerabilities

China might be a Great Power today but only when it has Independent Energy and Food and isn’t dependent on any one for either would China truly be a superpower

Only the British Empire (1858–1950) & US (1971–2015) were Superpowers

If Russia and China formed a merged economic alliance & military alliance, then it could be a superpower today

The Greatest Of All Great Men

Written in response to: Write a story in which someone time-travels 25 years or more into the past.

W B

He clasped the lever and dragged it down. A cacophonous burst of energy and the machine exploded into life. Metallic fibres hummed with possibility as Charles Rothstein climbed into the capsule and unfurled his scribbled notes:‘ED-B: +56%, HVRT: +44%, SPU: +43%, EVT: +40%, GU: +35%’Of course, travelling back 25 days to invest in profitable shares wasn’t the most creative use of time travel, but he had to test the contraption somehow. Besides, boosting his net worth by a cool $178bn wouldn’t hurt. The divorce had been crippling but once again he was ready assault the summit of the Forbes list. From there, endless possibilities…With a childlike zeal, he entered the numbers and took one last look around the room. Life would never be the same. The world would never be the same. If only Cassie had understood how important this work was…. No, best not go there. The contraption vibrated and the room shook. “Preparing for: minus 25 years,” the AI announced. Charles leaned back in his chair and prepared to pop back into the past. Except…  25 years? Years!? Before he could even process the mistake, the machine swallowed him up in a ball of cosmic light. ShitHe reappeared in the year 2000. In truth the basement hadn’t changed much. It was tempting to get up and look around, but Charles had read enough science fiction to know it wasn’t prudent. A flap of a butterfly’s wing etcetera….

 

“What the fuck?” Charles spun round to be confronted by a large, gangly youth in a sleeveless neon hoodie and three-quarter jeans. Neither spoke. The young man had dropped his cereal in shock and a stream of milk was now meandering towards Charles’ favourite slippers. Shit

 

He’d imagined this scenario many times, but the reality was far more daunting. Still, he took a deep breath, climbed out the capsule and began intruding himself to… himself. He kept it brief, including only the highlights: founding QuantAI, winning Times’ Person of the Year, and eventually solving time travel, among other things.

 

As he reeled off his achievements, Charles realised just how much he’d accomplished this past 20 years. Seeing the younger man’s eyes widen was especially gratifying, as was the strange expression on his face once the monologue was over – somewhere between curiosity and awe. I truly am the greatest of all great men.

 

—————————————————————-

 

Charlie stared incredulously at the man before him. Why do I look so old? The man’s skin was pasty and grey, in sharp contrast to his hair which was dyed jet black. At 48 years, he resembled a cadaver in a wig. As he spoke, spittle flew from thin, pink lips and his bony, white hands twitched excitedly. His electric blue eyes were alight with manic energy yet behind them lay a queer emptiness.

 

Gradually and then suddenly, Charlie realised this was actually happening. Initially, he thought there might’ve been something in the joint he’d been smoking but no. This was, unmistakably, himself. The older man was clearly very proud of his life story, so Charlie listened politely as the words washed over him.

 

“Anyway, that’s us,” the older man’s left eye seemed to spasm briefly. Is he trying to wink at me? “I assume you have plenty of questions?”

 

Charlie was stumped. Of course, he knew what he wanted to ask but he was far too afraid of the answer. Still, he could ask anything. Endless possibilities…

 

“How’re Leeds doing?”

 

“Top of the league.”

 

“Top of the Prem!” Charlie beamed.

 

“No, the Championship.” Shit.

 

“What else…. Kanye’s still our favourite artist, right?”

 

“Ah now that’s complicated.” For some reason the older man glanced at the Star of David hanging above the doorway. “Just enjoy the music while you can.”

 

“Okay, sounds mysterious,” mused Charlie. Time to think bigger.

 

“Have we made it to Mars yet?”

 

“Sadly not. I have a friend across the pond who’s working on it….  though he seems a bit distracted right now”

 

“Sure, sure…” Should I ask the question? No, no it’ll just ruin things. “How about the environment? Have we made any progress there?”

 

The older man snorted. “Not quite…  although we can’t use plastic straws anymore.”

 

Charlie didn’t know what to make of that. “What have they done to sort out global warming?”

 

He shook his head, “Very little…”

 

“But surely, with Al Gore coming into the Whitehouse once the recount’s finished…”

 

The older man laughed. “Actually, the Supreme Court…  never mind.” He stared pensively into Charlie’s eyes and for the first time he seemed human. “I forgot how idealistic we used to be…”

 

He tore his eyes away from those of his former self. “Anyway, I should get going. You have a big future ahead of you mate,” he finished, somewhat sadly, and turned away. Suddenly Charlie felt guilty. Clearly the older man wanted him to show an interest in his life; the businesses he’d founded, the concepts he’d realised, the accolades he’d achieved.

 

But, truthfully, Charlie didn’t care. No doubt he would in time, the man before him was proof of that. Now, though, there was only one question he wanted to ask. For the first time since the old man from the future appeared in his living room, Charlie was nervous.

 

“One last thing,” he began tentatively. “As you know…  as you’ll remember…  I met this girl last year and we’ve been dating ever since…” the words came tumbling out before he could stop them. He recalled the awkward first meeting outside the College Master’s office, the first kiss punctuated with fits of laughter as they stumbled through torrential rain, the trip to Paris where they missed the reservation and spent all night eating ice cream beneath the Eiffel Tower.

 

When the older man turned around, he seemed smaller. Shrunken. The empty, electric blue eyes now glistening with tears. Oblivious, Charlie continued to burble about the love of his life.

 

“Anyway, I just want to know…  well…  please, please, please tell me we’re married to Cassie.”

I currently own a Tesla — a 2020 Model 3 Long Range AWD. I took delivery of it in Dec 2019. At the time, it was the only EV that could meet my driving needs. I did not purchase the “Performance” model nor did I purchase the “Full Self-Driving” package, but I did pay for other other “premium” upgrades.

The reason I’ll never buy another Tesla is because it’s not a very good car. Even though I paid extra for the “premium” upgrades, the interior feels cheap, and the interior is quite noisy (it’s always had trouble with road noise, and now that it’s 5 years old, it has developed numerous rattles that there is absolutely no excuse for). The controls are terrible (you’re forced to use the stupid touch screen for just about everything, and it’s only gotten worse in the newer models). Sure, the acceleration is good, but that’s true of every EV and the while the handling is mostly fine (due almost entirely to the low center of gravity that every skateboard-type EV platform is going to have), it’s nothing to write home about and the turning radius is absolutely terrible; the Volvo XC90 that my wife used to drive was easier to park in a tight parking lot than my Model 3. They tout their awesome over-the-air software updates, but on more than one occasion, one of those updates has broken something on my car, and at this point, I’ve stopped letting it perform the updates because I’m tired of it. The backup camera is flaky, and it seems to be entirely a software problem. They can’t even make something as simple as rain sensing wipers work correctly, something my 21 year old BMW hobby car has absolutely nailed. I should have been tipped off about how much of a piece of junk it was when I took delivery and noted several paint defects (Tesla ended up having to re-spray several body panels).

My wife currently drive a Volvo XC40 Recharge. Except for the single-charge range, it’s a much better car by just about every metric. It’s more comfortable and quiet inside, the interior materials are much nicer (in our case, it’s the vegan suede that really actually feels like suede … and that’s the base interior … we wanted the wool upholstery, which feels absolutely amazing, but that was going to significantly delay delivery so we compromised). Literally the only thing the Tesla does better than the Volvo is the single-charge range and the admittedly very good integration of the Tesla DC fast-charging network into the navigation system.

I have done several long road trips in my Model 3. My wife has also done a long road trip in the Volvo (driving it across the United States from California to Connecticut). The single-charge range and comparably worse charging integration into the navigation system were not significant barriers to that cross-country drive, and I plan to drive the car from CT to CA, so I’ll be able to directly compare the Tesla vs Volvo experience. But of course, the overwhelming majority of the driving that my wife and I do is basic commute / around-town errand running, so the vast majority of the time the superior Tesla DC fast-charging experience is of no benefit, so it does not tilt the scale.

Grilled Onion Cheeseburgers

Grilled Onion Cheeseburgers

Prep and cooking: 35 to 45 min | Yield: 4 servings

Ingredients

  • 2 pounds ground beef
  • 2 tablespoons chopped fresh thyme
  • 1 tablespoon minced garlic
  • 2 large yellow or white onions, cut into 1/2 inch thick slices
  • 1-2 tablespoons vegetable or olive oil
  • 4 white or whole wheat hamburger buns or Kaiser rolls, split
  • 3 ounces crumbled or shredded cheese (blue cheese, smoked mozzarella, goat cheese, feta, etc.)*

Instructions

  1. Combine ground beef, thyme and garlic in medium bowl, mixing lightly but thoroughly. Lightly shape into eight 1/2 inch thick patties. Brush both sides of onion slices with oil. Place patties and onion slices on grill over medium, ash-covered coals.
  2. Grill patties, uncovered, 11 to 13 minutes to medium (160 degrees F) doneness until no longer pink in center and juices show no pink color, turning occasionally. Grill onions 15 to 20 minutes or until tender, turning occasionally and brushing with oil. Season patties with salt and pepper, as desired.
  3. Add desired cheese to burgers about 1 minute before removing from grill. Place cheese-topped burgers on bottom of each bun and top with 1/2 of grilled onions. Close sandwiches. Cover and refrigerate remaining 4 burgers and onions.

Notes

* Any type of sliced cheese may also be used to top burgers, including Cheddar, Swiss, provolone and Gouda.

Mandarin is easily the most common language in China, with about 70% of the population able to speak it fluently. However, if you are looking at the Chinese diaspora worldwide, Cantonese has traditionally been far more widely spoken than Mandarin, and in some Chinatowns you will still hear little else.

The exceptions are Singapore and Malaysia, where Hokkien (like Taiwanese) is more widely spoken, than Cantonese, but you can also use Mandarin in both. For some strange historical reason, most Chinese Malaysians transliterate their names according to Cantonese pronunciation, regardless of their own ethnic heritage.

Cantonese is also still the language or dialect of choice for transliterating foreign names. So, the Chinese characters used in the names of famous politicians, for example, from Hitler to Trump (sorry to put those two together, but there are many people who seem to think they have more in common than the pronunciation of their Chinese names!) are based on their Cantonese pronunciation, not Mandarin (the Mandarin for Hitler sounds a little like ‘Shit-e-ler’, perhaps more appropriate for someone so hated!).

I don’t know about now, with Xi Jinping trying to wipe out everything but Mandarin, but in the 1990s it was at least as easy if not more so to get by in Guangdong province (in the south) in Cantonese than Mandarin, and instruction was allowed in schools in that era, so if you plan to spend any time in that region, I would imagine it’s still very useful there too.

I Regret Asking for An Open Marriage, It Backfired

After all, why be normal when you can be memorable?

Chinese Factory Workers for Category E & F Products (Low Grade) earn a minimum wage of 16.50-22.50 Yuan per hour for 50 hours a month plus 10 hours overtime at 25-34 Yuan per hour

So that’s around 1050 Yuan a month to 1440 Yuan a month for Factory workers which is around ($ 145 – $ 200 a month)

However here are some things you should know

Most Low Grade factory workers are migrants from Rural China who live in the factory premises for 11 months every year

A. Accommodation is free

B. 3 Meals a Day is Free – And they are good hot meals

C. Medical Checkups and Treatment is free

D. Mobile Phone is Free and plan of 24 GB Data a month is free . They can’t play league of legends all day but they can send messages home and do basic stuff

E. They get a state mandated Bonus of 45 days a year or 10,000 Yuan a year whichever is lower (Expected to increase to 12,500 Yuan a year from 2025) during Chinese New Years Day

So when they leave home for Chinese New year they get a lumpsum of 13,110 – 18,000 Yuan

Meanwhile at home based on their Rural Hukou :-

  • Their family gets free electricity of upto 150 Units a month (250 Units during Winter Or Peak summer)
  • The Family gets subsidy coupons which allow them to buy upto 8 1/2 Pounds of Pork and a variety of other foodstuffs and groceries for only 10%-25% of their market price
  • The Education of Kids and Healthcare costs of the family are also State provided and Free

So you tell me – WHERE DO THEY ACTUALLY SPEND THE MONEY?

In fact there are instances of Workers coming home with 15,000–20,000 Yuan every year and LENDING THE MONEY at interest to relatives or loaning it to other relatives to open a noodle shop or a roast duck shop in the nearest town

It’s why almost 80% of these Jobs are done by WOMEN rather than men


Americans may earn more but they have to pay rent, groceries and contribute to their own healthcare

So on the whole Chinese Laborers are well treated and are comfortable enough to eat well, live in a decent house and have access to education and healthcare

Certainly not Slave Labor

Honey Cherry Granola Bars

Honey Cherry Granola Bars are great for after-school snacks!

Honey Cherry Granola Bars

Yield: 12 to 16 bars

Ingredients

  • 1/3 cup pure honey
  • 1/4 cup butter, melted
  • 3 egg whites
  • 1 teaspoon cinnamon
  • 1/2 teaspoon almond flavoring
  • 3 cups low-fat granola
  • 1/2 cup almonds, coarsely chopped
  • 3/4 cup dried cherries

Instructions

  1. Heat oven to 350 degrees F.
  2. Whisk together honey, butter, egg whites, cinnamon and almond flavoring.
  3. Stir in granola, almonds and cherries.
  4. Spoon granola mixture into 9 -inch, nonstick (or well greased) square pan.
  5. Using a piece of wax paper, firmly press granola mixture in pan.
  6. Bake for 20 to 25 minutes or until lightly browned.
  7. Remove pan from oven and place on a cooling rack.
  8. Cool completely; cut into bars.

Wall Street surged. It took Trump’s pledge of tax cut seriously. But the effect has started to subside.

Nasdaq took a steep tumble when it realized how good DeepSeek’s v3 and R1 models were. About $1 trillion of valuation was wiped off the market on 27 January. DeepSeek is open-source. The v3 and R1 models only cost a fraction of models made by Google and OpenAI.

China tech stocks are on a tear. There is the sense of optimism. DeepSeek is one reason. Another is the meeting on 17 February between President Xi and the leaders of tens of China’s high tech companies. It was a meeting of collaboration of the government and tech industry to map out the strategy and growth going forward.

Trump’s new 10% tariff on China’s goods has no effect on stock prices.

It has at most a limited effect on China’s exports to the US, but take note that (1) the tariffs are paid by US importers and consumers, and (2) over 50% of China’s exports to the US are by US companies in China.

If you are expecting a stock market crash in China from Trump’s tariff, you have been barking at the wrong tree.

Dude finds unusual stack of US BINDERS in Afghanistan. You won’t believe this…

Well, in the case of Jackie Chan, or Chan Kong-sang (“Hongkong-born Chan”), for example, you have to consider his citizenship. He had (at one time at least) Australian citizenship as well as that of Hong Kong, so he would have to have a name that could be written in English. In Chinese, he is known as Chung-long (成龍), which is a stage name. For Hong Kong Chinese, the custom is to put the English personal name first, so Jackie Chan Kong-sang; English personal name, followed by Chinese family name, followed by Chinese personal name (the Chinese parts written according to Cantonese pronunciation).

Chinese names in general are written with the family name first, so again, in Chan Kong-sang, ‘Chan’ is the family name. In Hong Kong and Taiwan, and for many overseas Chinese communities, the custom is to put a hyphen between the (usually two) characters that make up a personal name, so ‘Kong-sang’. In the PRC there is no hyphen, thus Xi Jinping, not Xi Jin-ping. So, this is usually an indicator of citizenship or ethnicity. In Singapore and Malaysia, the custom is to write the three parts all beginning with a capital, and no hyphen; thus Lee Kuan Yew, for example.

Another indicator (but only indicator) or ethnicity is having only two characters in the name, not three. This is common in the PRC but not elsewhere. Another indicator is whether the person writes their name in Chinese only, (Chan Kong-sang) or has an ‘English’ (really could be French, Russian, whatever, but written in Roman characters) name, like Jackie. Many people, both in China and Taiwan, don’t. Of course, the use of this English name form can also be chosen to make it easier for non-Chinese, or it may also be used by ethnic Chinese or people of Chinese descent elsewhere; Jackie Chan, Steve Huang, Michelle Lin, etc., are easier names for people in English-speaking countries to pronounce than full Chinese names.

THE YING AND THE YANG

Written in response to: Center your story around a character who’s struggling to let go.

Joanne Oliver

Lightning illuminated my face, jolting me from a dream that instantly dissolved   into the realms of my subconscious leaving nothing  but a whisper of fear.Thunder whipped through the night sky, battling with the heavy rain that lashed hard against the bedroom windows. Taking a long deep breath I inhaled the faint aroma of lavender“Sleepwalking again, I see,” I muttered wishing   the words  would become lost in the storm’s symphony then I wouldn’t have to deal with their impact“At least wake up for a mug of  hot chocolate… or anything chocolate-related.” I groaned, slumping onto the edge of my late grandmother’s bed ignoring the boxes that needed filling up.George had insisted that he would help me clear out her belongings but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.His Aunt Betty was a part of my grandmother’s entertainment troop. She played piano and by all accounts was quite the male impersonator.My trembling hands cupped her silver music box as I recalled sitting on the piano, my tiny legs dangling over the side. I could almost hear my grandmother humming happily, stitching sequins onto my alarmingly accurate costume. Why did I have to grow up so damn quickly? Puberty had been a minefield of hormones and mood swings

 

” One day – You will find the Ying to your Yang,” My grandmother’s voice was clear and comforting against my usual  loud slamming down the phone, storming off to my room and sobbing into pillow performance. “How do you think I met your grandfather?” She sat on the edge of my bed. “His plane crashed near the cattle shed, and I helped your great grandmother nurse him back to health. Funny thing your great grandfather and great uncle Bert couldn’t find his plane with any documentation or insignia. My great uncle thought your grandfather was some sort of undercover spy and these things had been removed for national security. Your great grandfather thought the land had claimed it back. Do you know on our wedding day, your grandfather gave me his only possession—this music box. He told me its power. It led him to me and one day at the right time the box will take you exactly where you need to be”

Turning it over in my hands, I sighed. The weight of memory pressed against my chest, and before I knew it, a stubborn tear slipped down my cheek.

As a child, I’d watched her wind up the music box, curlers in her hair, claiming it held magical powers. “Close your eyes,” she’d whisper with a knowing smile, “Make a wish. “  As the melody played, her vivid stories would unfold: towering castles with kings and queens, lords and ladies weaving secrets, and Border Reivers lurking in the mist. I thought they were mere bedtime tales, but now, with the music box nestled in my palms, they felt tangible—alive.

I wound the key, half-hoping its mechanism would stir something within me.

The familiar chime filled the room. For a brief moment, everything paused—the ticking clock, the raging storm. And then, the world shifted.

The bed beneath me was gone. My clothes, too. In their place, I wore ripped jeans, a leather jacket, and a shirt that screamed punk rebellion. The smoky air and thrum of bass told me I was in a bar, packed with leather-clad strangers.

It was 1977. The Broken Palace—a forgotten haunt of the punk rock scene. My heart raced as I tried to make sense of the impossible.

“What stage of grief is this supposed to be?” I muttered, my voice swallowed by the chaos around me.

I was about to bolt when the lights dimmed, and Alex Zander stormed the stage bounding around like a hyper active gazelle. The crowd roared as he led his band The In Zanies with his raw, electric energy. This wasn’t the Alex Zander rediscovered by internet sleuths during lockdown—the one whose disappearance from his home baffled the world.

This Alex Zander was very much alive and so goddamn beautiful.His leather trousers clung to every inch of his athletic frame, his jet-black curls falling across smoldering blue eyes. The room hung on his every word.

 

As the band played the faint glow from the music box began pulsing in time with the beat. The melody seemed to shift, weaving into the song onstage like it belonged there, like it was calling to something—or someone. I pressed it closer to my chest, but it was too late. Alex’s gaze locked onto mine, sharp and unrelenting. It was almost as if he had sensed the music box but that was impossible

 

Suddenly he leapt off the stage and made a beeline for me. My breath hitched as he grabbed my hand, his warmth sending a jolt through me. He leaned closer, his voice a mix of grit and seduction. Then, with a devilish grin, he back flipped onto the stage.

There was something about him that went past the usual rockstar allure; something deeper—primal, magnetic, undeniable. Was distraction also part of the grieving process?

The music box shimmered again and the smell of lavender filled my nostrils

.

The box lay cold and still in my lap, its glow completely gone, as if it had never been there at all. My heart was still racing, my mind swimming with the sound of bass and the memory of Alex’s electric gaze. What was this thing?

My grandmother’s voice echoed in my mind: “It will take you exactly where you need to be.”

“Okay, I get it,” I whispered to the empty room even though I didn’t not yet.

 

Over the following weeks despite what I told myself I found myself giving in to the temptation, spinning the key and letting the melody transport me.

Each time,  there was a fleeting moment—a shared glance. Then  a stolen kiss but all too soon the music box would shimmer and that familiar smell of lavender would bring me back home

 

Denial,” I whispered as the radio burst out that his latest single had just missed out on the number one spot on the music charts. “This is obviously Denial.”

“Anger,” I muttered another time, watching Alex glare at a bandmate’s onstage behaviour.

 

Over time grief  became something quieter, almost, manageable and I began to socialise more and  convinced myself I’d stop using the music box when me and George were  officially a couple.  He was  the Ying to my Yang so why did I put my engagement ring on the bedside table?

The smell of lavender was overbearing. I had to pick up the music box again.

That familiar tune played, and the room shifted once more.

This time, I materialized in a warm kitchen. The aroma of coffee hung in the air. Alex Zander sat cross-legged on a small sofa, papers scattered in front of him.

This was the day he disappeared. What was this? Shock therapy? Or punishment for choosing George?

 

My pulse quickened. As Alex started, closing the distance between us. In seconds his arms wrapped around me, and his voice trembled with relief.

“So it finally brought you here,” he murmured.

“I don’t understand…” I stammered, my words swallowed as his lips crashed against mine. The intensity between us was overwhelming, a release of something that had been building for far too long.

The music box fell to the floor, shattering into small constellations , amplifying the sensations between us.

As he lifted me, silk sheets materialized beneath us, and we surrendered to the pull of fate.

When I caught my breath, I glanced at the music box. It was whole again, perched smugly on the bedside table.The warm air wrapped around me, carrying with it the unmistakable scent of lavender. It wasn’t faint this time—it was everywhere, rich and alive, like my grandmother’s soft Goodnight kiss upon my forehead. Suddenly , the ache in my chest loosened, and a quiet certainty settled over me. The music box had done exactly what it was meant to do

A few years ago I had an employee transferred to my department. Good employee. Not very experienced in what we were doing but eager to learn.

She said she could use Excel, which I was very happy to hear because we had many spreadsheets and reports to deal with, but it seemed to take her quite a long time to turn one out.

One morning I asked her to my office and enter some data for me while I thumbed through hard copies of old records stashed in boxes. With her keying in the info as quickly as I could call it out we were done in about 10 minutes. Great! No it wasn’t.

I asked her to give me the total for a previous year and an average by month. She goes, “Sure, no problem,” and stands up to leave. Is something wrong? Where are you going?

“Oh I’m going to get my calculator,” was her reply.

I didn’t laugh but I did turn my head for a second, and not wanting to embarrass her, asked if she knew about formulas and functions in Excel. “Um……. I don’t think so.”

I felt sorry for her. She had been busting her butt turning out reports using a calculator and pencil and manually entering the results in a cell. She had no idea that Excel could do math for her.

It’s just the beginning.

A woman I was dating told me once that I’m not emotional enough. I “didn’t have enough feeling.”

I’m still bitter about this almost 10 years later, because I get outrageously emotional about a lot of things. Sometimes I feel like feeling is all I am. No substance here otherwise. Just feelings. Sometimes I have to make sure no one’s watching. I reel the emotions in because they might think I’m crazy or just had a death in the family.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s just the sunset / this painting / this amazing book…. Don’t worry, I’m good! God, it’s so good. Don’t you see these details? Do you have no feelings? Are you even looking?”

Strong emotions are MiracleGro. Crying, one of the best things in life. But I’m not going to do it in front of you just to prove that I have emotions. You’ll see it in time. Wait. Treat me like a human, and wait. (Were you with me a few days ago when I stopped in eastern Kansas, where my mother’s great-grandparents are buried, old Kansas Quakers, people who quaked with feeling — the origin of their name — and I stood at their grave and thanked those people who died in 1899 amid the meadowlarks for giving me my name. I was named after two of their sons, whom I never knew, but I’m grateful for this. And I have “no feelings.”)

She made me take a personality test, which “explains” everything. (So, it explains nothing, like all things that purport to explain everything. The Meyers-Briggs test is one of the biggest frauds in psychology. Worse than astrology.) And she was bummed at the results, because they said I was unemotional, too “analytic.” I wish I was more analytic. It would save me some grief and keep me from saying rude things about total strangers. I never say rude things to anyone’s face, because I have manners, but behind their backs, I say rude things all the time. I know that I shouldn’t, because people are icebergs. But because I have feelings, I get carried away. All people have their reasons for being the way they are that you do not understand. A lot of those reasons are rooted in loss and pain. We’d get along great if you’d understood this.

Sometimes I sit outside under the moon with a beer and a cigar and just sit there and weep at the beauty, at the madman God who created all this stuff — inimitable craftsman of the snowflake and the thunderstorm, THANK YOU, creator of weirdness and complexity, for not making the world such an easy read. Sometimes I think about my dad, the only weirdo on the block, who left me these 10 acres of beautiful field and forest here at the edge of a city with no economic opportunity, no friends, hardly any family still alive or around, where my love life has died the death of roadkill because every interesting woman, all of them, the last one, has left the area. (A hyperbolic emotional exaggeration, but “I have no feelings.”) So here I sit with the spring peepers and the birds and the wind, having all sorts of emotions that someone thought I didn’t have.

I love the land my dad left me, more than I realized I did when I was a kid, when I wanted out of here, because I didn’t understand feelings. But here I am, my feet encased in concrete shoes like Jimmy Hoffa, knowing that if I keep the land, it’ll be me and the trees here forever, nobody else. The gift-curse. If I didn’t have an emotional attachment to it, I’d sell tomorrow, move to a city, make the priceless coins, get the great job that disappoints almost everyone I’ve ever known, 98% of them horribly unhappy even though they did everything they were supposed to do, most of them divorced because they don’t understand pain and are terrified of silence.

Instead, I have such an overpowering emotional attachment to what my dad left, it’s probably killing me. (But I get FANTASTIC sleep here, and it’s all paid off. I don’t have to sell my butt to a boss. There are perks.)

My dad had the same love-hate relationship. Some days, he wanted to move to Colorado. Every time he thought about selling, he heard the whisper of his grandfather in the trees and stuck around. Crazy stuff. Emotions! But I’ve felt it, too. I’m not selling to some developer so he can come in here and build a Dollar General.

Last night, I found a photo of my own grandfather, my dad’s dad, aged about 15, standing on a dirt road not far from here, maybe 1939, a photo I’d never seen before, and I was overwhelmed with emotion and had trouble sleeping. There’s nothing super special about the photo — he’s holding a shotgun, of all things — but it was new to me. Out of the blue, I cried for an hour.

That woman’s comments still cut me like a knife.

Be careful what you assume about people. You do not know them. People are icebergs. You see the tip, and icebergs have taken ships down. I have to give myself my own advice pretty often, because I fail to take it as often as I should, which is always, because it’s good advice: do NOT make assumptions about people. Not seeing something with your own eyes does not mean it doesn’t exist. There are things right under my own nose that I’ve never seen, or at least never appreciated enough.

Sir Whiskerton and the Case of the Copycat Pig: A Tale of Drama, Dark Glasses, and Disastrous Imitation

Ah, dear reader, prepare yourself for a tale so absurd, so uproarious, that even the scarecrow might crack a smile (if he weren’t, you know, made of straw). Today’s story is one of mistaken identities, over-the-top theatrics, and a pig who took method acting way too seriously. So, grab your popcorn (or a bucket of feed, if you’re feeling peckish), and let us dive into Sir Whiskerton and the Case of the Copycat Pig: A Tale of Drama, Dark Glasses, and Disastrous Imitation.


Act 1: The Rise of the Oinkster

It all began on a perfectly ordinary Tuesday—which, as any farm animal will tell you, is never a good sign. The sun was shining, the hay was freshly baled, and Doris the Hen was holding court in the coop, as was her divine right.

  • “Ladies,” Doris declared, fluffing her feathers, “today, we discuss the scandal of the missing corn kernels.”
  • “Scandal!” Harriet echoed, clutching her chest.
  • “Kernels!” Lillian added before promptly fainting onto a pile of straw.

And then… it happened.

From the shadows of the barn, a portly figure emerged. A pig. But not just any pig—this pig had ambition. His name? Oinkster.

Now, Oinkster had always been a quiet, contemplative pig, content to wallow in mud and ponder life’s great mysteries (such as, Why is slop so delicious? and Do acorns dream of being truffles?). But on this fateful day, something inside him snapped.

Perhaps it was the way Doris swooned with such flair. Maybe it was Harriet’s dramatic gasps. Or maybe it was Lillian’s impeccable comedic timing. Whatever the reason, Oinkster felt a calling.

And so, with a snort of determination, he did the unthinkable.

He joined them.

  • “Ladies,” Oinkster declared, fluffing his nonexistent feathers, “today, we discuss the scandal of the missing corn kernels.”
  • “Scandal!” he echoed, clutching his chest.
  • “Kernels!” he added before dramatically collapsing onto the same pile of straw—nearly crushing Lillian in the process.

The hens stared.

Doris blinked.

Harriet gasped (again, for effect).

Lillian, still half-buried under pig, managed a weak, “Help.”

And thus, the legend of Oinkster, the Copycat Pig, was born.


Act 2: The Farm Descends into Chaos

What began as a curious imitation quickly spiraled into full-blown pandemonium. Oinkster didn’t just copy the hens—he became them.

  • When Doris organized a protest against the farmer’s “unfair” feed distribution, Oinkster was right beside her, holding a sign that read “PIGS DESERVE GOURMET TOO!”
  • When Harriet shrieked about a “mysterious shadow” (which turned out to be a leaf), Oinkster shrieked louder.
  • When Lillian fainted at the sight of a particularly menacing dandelion, Oinkster also fainted—directly onto the dandelion, thereby solving the problem.

The farm had never been so… dramatic.

Even Sir Whiskerton, who prided himself on maintaining order, was at a loss.

  • “This is getting out of hand,” I muttered, watching Oinkster reenact Harriet’s latest swoon with alarming accuracy.
  • “Hand!” Ditto echoed, nodding sagely.

But just when I thought things couldn’t get worse… he arrived.


Act 3: Enter… The Pigernator

A shadow fell across the farm. A cool shadow. A shadow wearing sunglasses.

From the dusty road emerged a figure so intimidating, so unstoppable, that even the chickens paused mid-squawk.

  • Leather jacket? Check.
  • Muscles? Check.
  • Tiny pig hooves crossed over his chest in a pose that screamed, “I’ll be back… for slop”? Double check.

This was no ordinary pig.

This was… The Pigernator.

  • “I am here for Oinkster,” he grunted in a voice that sounded suspiciously like gravel wrapped in bacon. “Bigcat wants him back.”

A hush fell over the barnyard.

  • “Back?” Doris whispered.
  • “Bigcat?” Harriet gasped.
  • “Oh no,” Lillian said before fainting.
  • “No!” Oinkster echoed, fainting directly on top of her.

The Pigernator adjusted his sunglasses. “Resistance is futile.”


Act 4: Sir Whiskerton’s Brilliant (and Slightly Ridiculous) Plan

Now, dear reader, you may be wondering: How does one negotiate with a pig who thinks he’s a cybernetic assassin?

The answer, as it turns out, is theater.

  • “Pigernator,” I began, stepping forward with my most diplomatic tail flick, “I propose a… competition.”
  • “Competition?” The Pigernator’s eyebrow (or where an eyebrow would be, if pigs had them) twitched.
  • “Yes,” I said. “A test of skill. A battle of wits. A… dramatic showdown.”

The Pigernator considered this. “What are the terms?”

  • “If you win, Oinkster returns with you,” I said.
  • “And if you win?”

I smirked. “Then you admit that farm life is superior to Bigcat’s tyranny… and you stay for dinner.”

A pause. Then—

“Accepted.”

And so, the greatest contest the farm had ever seen began.


The Competition: Three Rounds of Absurdity

Round 1: The Dramatic Faint-Off

  • Contestants: Oinkster vs. The Pigernator
  • Rules: Whoever faints with the most flair wins.

Oinkster went first, collapsing with a swoon so dramatic, even Doris applauded.

The Pigernator? He tried. But alas, cybernetic pigs are not built for theatrics. His faint was more of a controlled descent, like a tree falling in slow motion.

Winner: Oinkster.

Round 2: The Overreaction Challenge

  • Contestants: Harriet vs. The Pigernator
  • Rules: React to a completely normal event as if it were a catastrophe.

Harriet, upon seeing a single ant, shrieked, “IT’S AN INVASION! WE’RE DOOMED!”

The Pigernator stared at the ant. “I have analyzed this threat. It is… small.”

Winner: Harriet (by a landslide).

Round 3: The Ultimate Test… Karaoke

  • Contestants: The Pigernator vs. Ferdinand the Duck
  • Rules: Sing I Will Always Love You with feeling.

Ferdinand belted it out like a feathery Whitney Houston.

The Pigernator? His rendition sounded like a tractor engine choking on a corn cob.

Winner: Ferdinand (obviously).


The Aftermath: A Pig Reformed

Defeated, The Pigernator removed his sunglasses (revealing surprisingly gentle eyes).

  • “I… concede,” he admitted. “Farm life is… illogical.”
  • “But fun?” I prompted.

A pause. Then—

“…Acceptable.”

And with that, The Pigernator joined us, trading his leather jacket for a sunhat and his mission for a life of leisure.

As for Oinkster? He did return to Bigcat’s farm…

As a drama teacher.


Moral of the Story

Life is too short to take too seriously. Whether you’re a pig who copies chickens, a cybernetic agent of chaos, or a cat with a flair for diplomacy, sometimes the best solution is to embrace the absurdity—preferably with a dramatic faint and a well-timed quack.

After all, why be normal when you can be memorable?


Best Lines

  • “Kernels!” — Oinkster, committing fully to the bit.
  • “I’ll be back… for slop.” — The Pigernator, probably.
  • “Farm life is… illogical.” — The Pigernator, moments before discovering the joy of mud baths.

Post-Credit Scene

Somewhere on Bigcat’s farm, a group of hens perform Shakespeare. Oinkster, now their director, sighs wistfully. “Alas, poor Yorick… I ate him.”

Starring

  • Sir Whiskerton as The Cat Who Really Should Get Paid for This
  • Oinkster as The Pig Who Found His Calling
  • The Pigernator as The Terminator… But Cuter
  • Doris, Harriet, and Lillian as The Drama Queens

P.S. If life gives you lemons, throw them at a pig wearing sunglasses. Trust me, it’s hilarious.

The End.

I worked for Enron.

You may remember them as “the smartest guys in the room”.

When their multiple frauds began to come to light, the executives (smart guys remember) started to dump their stock.

Meanwhile, the employees of Enron, who had a nice pension plan through the company, were not “allowed” to sell the stock that made up our pension fund.

As a result employees of Enron lost all of their company pension plan funds.

Some of those employees had already retired and they lost all of their pension fund income at an age where they couldn’t earn it back.

I wonder if Tesla has instructed their employees that they are not allowed to sell their Tesla stock?

Her Ex Is Living His BEST Life as a SINGLE DAD – And She CAN’T STAND IT!

In 2025/3, USTR (Trade Representative) proposed to charge a Port Fee on China-made cargo ships for docking at EACH US port EACH time. (1 ship may dock at 2-3 ports in 1 shipment)

If the China-made ship is used (bought or leased) by a foreign firm, the port fee is US$1.5 million. If the China-made ship is used by a Chinese firm taking goods from-to foreign ports, the fee is $2.5 mn. If it is used by a Chinese firm taking goods from a Chinese port, then $3.5 mn.

manufacturing & goods shipment

China ship manufacturing accounts for 58% of world total. Japan+SK 42%. USA only 0.01%. ie it is Japan & SK manufacturing that will be affected by China; not USA.

In goods shipping, China-made ships accounts for 80% of world. In 2024, the top 5 shippers who docked at USA were Switzerland (2000 times), Denmark, France, Japan, Germany, China is 6th. … USA is robbing US allies.

words from 1 shipping firm

A CEO of a foreign shipping firm (I forgot the name) said, 13 years ago, his firm wanted to buy 5 cargo ships. Japan & SK did not make the type of ship his firm wanted. USA would take 7 years to finish. Only China could do it within reasonable time & competitive price. He said it was not because he did not want to buy US ships. It was because the US speed of ship building cannot meet the high demand for maintenance/repair of old ships, & building of new ships. (China speed is 200% of USA) He complained that USTR’s (reckless) proposal will void their decision made 13 years ago & will bankrupt them.

reason for death of US ship manufacturing

In 2024, Japan & SK’s ship manufacturing drops to 42% from 65% from past 10 years. It is due to lack of local engineers & workers. They must hire foreign workers.

Same for USA. It falls to 0.01% ie DEAD. So dead that US warships must go to Japan or other countries for maintenance/repair.

Many US industries died too, because of US ultra capitalism. Look. 70% of Boeing work is out-sourced to India.

effect of US port fee

Port fee will only damage the flow of global trade. But will not revive US dead ship manufacturing in as short as 10 years because of US capitalism.

Shippers hesitate to go to USA. US export products eg LNG, coal, agricultural goods cannot go outside. Unless ordinary Americans pay the port fee thru high, high & high inflation.

40% of Chinese exports to USA are products made by US-owned firms inside China eg Apple’s iPhone & iPad, HP & Dell’s Laptop. That is, US port fee will harm US firms & ordinary Americans.

Instead of docking at 2-3 US ports, ships will dock only at 1 big port & do all unloadings. Small ports & their cities will lose income.

Shippers may also switch to ports in Latin America. Let Americans pay Latin for shipping by rail/road to USA.

Bottom line:

To revive the dead US ship building is an excuse. Robbery is the true motive. Rob US allies Europe & Japan, in name of anti-China.

Shorpy

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Recent graduates during the job hunting season in Japan.

Japan has a strict rule when you are looking for a job, especially for college students.

They all have to wear what is called recruiting attire.

This is the basic black suit, white shirt, black purse, and black dress shoes. It should be a standard design and length. Hair should be dyed black. There are a variety of black dye colors that are acceptable. For women, hair should be tied back in a ponytail. For men, it should be short and professional looking.

Clothing stores that sell suits and business attire sell these recruitment suits every hiring season. You’ll see advertisements and posters all over Japan.

You must blend in with the rest of the applicants. It will be disastrous for your application if you deviate from these rules.

Very Japanese thing.

Defunct Relics

Written in response to: Write a story from the POV of a now-defunct piece of technology.

Patrick D

In a old Canadian attic, a forgotten Royal typewriter and an original Nintendo reminisced about their glory days.“Remember Christmas 1985! When they unwrapped us?“Unforgettable! They were so excited they nearly broke us getting us out of our boxes! There was wrapping paper everywhere, and Back to the Future was playing on the TV, ” said Nintendo.“We were superstars; I was the most popular typewriter that year.”“And I was the most advanced entertainment system ever made, state-of-the-art! Shoppers would fist fight over me, I was mandatory under ever tree!”“Have some humility Nintendo,” laughed Royal. “I’ll admit you were highly addictive, Chris played games until his thumbs were callused,”“And Kristen must have written 1000 stories on you,” said Nintendo. “We had many great years with them, didn’t we?”

“Ten wonderful years Nintendo, I thought it would never end, until we were knocked off our pedestal by Super Nintendo and the PC, who would have seen that coming?”

“I suppose we’re lucky, we weren’t thrown away,” said Nintendo, “How long has it been?”

“Thirty-five years Nintendo. At least Chris still plays with you occasionally, Kristen hasn’t written a story on me in decades. We would write the most epic tales together, one of her stories was published in The New Yorker.”

Nintendo sensed a vibration. “It’s coming.”

Royal and Nintendo watched from the window as the dump truck pulled up, a man stepped off the back and threw the garbage in, a discarded vacuum cleaner pleaded for it’s life, but it was futile the vacuum was tossed in with the rest.”

“Poor vacuum,” said Nintendo.

“That’s our fate Nintendo, one day that truck will take us to the landfill, and we will never return.”

***

One Sunday afternoon the attic hatch opened. Royal and Nintendo watched in anticipation to see who was coming up. The ladder extended down and Kristen climbed up, followed by her daughter Gina.

“You can have this space for your writing,” said Kristen, “nice and private.”

Gina took in the room, “it smells like old books up here, I love it!”

Royal focused on Kristen, longing for her attention.

We’ll put things in three piles, garbage, Salvation Army, and keepers,” said Kristen.

“Garbage!” Exclaimed Royal.

“The Salvation Army? Royal what is that?”

“We’ll be drafted into some sort of war Nintendo!”

Kristen picked up Royal and blew the dust off, “My old typewriter, I really should donate it.”

Gina could see the look of nostalgia on her mother’s face, “Does it still work?”

“I think so, I’d have to buy ink for it, not even sure if they sell it anymore.”

“Can I have it?”

“Sure.” Kristen placed Royal back on the table.

“I think Gina just saved my life Nintendo!”

Kristen and Gina began handing down boxes to Chris. After they cleared the debris, they laid down a rug, hung posters and Christmas lights for ambience.

Royal and Nintendo looked around in approval, “Enchanting,” remarked Royal.

“I’m going to come up here all the time,” said Gina.

“I would have killed for a space like this when I was your age. Come on, let’s go make something to eat.” Kristen and Gina climbed down and closed the hatch behind them, and their voices moved out of range.

“We survived another round of cleanup,” Said Nintendo.

“Seems we did.”

“They couldn’t get rid of us, could they? We’re state of the art.”

“I’m afraid we’re not Nintendo, we are one trick ponies, these new machines serve multiple purposes now.”

Royal and Nintendo watched Chris take the boxes from the attic to the road, the act of placing something at the curb seems to summon the street scavengers, who appear out of nowhere.

“Where does all that stuff end up?”

“God knows Nintendo, the dump truck will claim what they leave.”

***

Gina and Kristen returned the following weekend. Kristen had a stack of paper and a new ink-ribbon, she placed the paper on the table and opened up Royal to installed it.

“What’s happening?” Asked Nintendo

“I’m coming out of retirement!”

Kristen inserted a piece of paper and rolled the knob until it was in place, she pressed keys at random.

“I can feel the ink running through my veins Nintendo! Just a few more key strokes” The letters became brighter with each passing, until they shined midnight black.

Kristen gave Gina a tutorial. “With typewriters you have to put a little more thought into your writing, it’s not easy to correct mistakes.”

After Kristen was happy with her lesson, she kissed Gina on the head and climbed down the attic hatch.

Gina stayed all night, typing away at Royal. “Why did people stop using these, they’re so fun.”

“I have no idea!” Answered Royal.

Nintendo was living vicariously through Royal, “I’m happy for you, my friend!”

“Thank you, Nintendo. feels nice to be appreciated.”

***

Royal looked down on the driveway, Kristen’s car was gone she had taken Gina somewhere. They must be out getting me more ink, thought Royal.

Moments later Chris opened the attic hatch and climbed up, he grabbed Nintendo and Royal and brought them downstairs and placed them in a box by the front door. All the garbage from Christmas was waiting there to be taken out.

Nintendo looked at the garbage bags and came undone, “we’re being thrown out Royal! This is outrageous! I’m a state-of-the-art entertainment system! He can’t!”

“Let’s meet our end with dignity Nintendo, we knew this day would come. Whatever horrors await us at the landfill we will face together.”

Chris was putting city tags on the extra garbage bags when the doorbell rang. Chris picked up the box with Royal and Nintendo and opened the door.

A man was standing there.

“It’s the garbage man, you son of a bitch Chris,” screamed Nintendo.

“Hi Dave?” asked Chris.

“Yes, hi Chris, we spoke on the phone, nice to meet you.”

Chris set the box down in front of him, “so, you collect 80’s merch?”

“Yes, I collect everything 80’s.” The man picked up Nintendo and Royal, appraising them both. “I’ll give you $150 for the Nintendo and games and $100 for the typewriter.”

‘We agreed on $225 for the Nintendo and games over the phone.”

“I’m sorry but it’s not in mint condition.”

“We’re being sold Nintendo!”

Chris’s attention shifted when Kristen and Gina pulling into the driveway.

Gina got out first and the man moved aside for her. Out of her periphery, she noticed Royal, “Dad don’t sell the typewriter, I’ve been using it!”

“$125 for the typewriter.” The man intervened.

“Dad!”

Kristen stepped in when she realized what was happening, “I’m sorry there’s been a mistake, that typewriter is not for sale, it’s mine.” Kristen grabbed the typewriter and gave Chris a cross look on her way in with Gina in toe.

“Nintendo!!!” Royal screamed as they were separated.

“$200 for the Nintendo and games,” the man countered.

Nintendo used every ounce of his being to telepathically project two words into Chris’s mind: DON’T SELL.

Chris held his Nintendo in his hands. The man reached out, which made Chris instinctively pull away, and that seemed to wake him up, “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but I can’t sell it.”

The man held eye contact with Chris, “What?”

Chris realized he had to make a concession, he pulled a twenty-dollar-bill from his wallet. “I’m very sorry about all this, take this is for your time and gas.”

The man reluctantly took the bill; he mumbled something under his breath as he walked back to his car.

Chris went back in the house where he was verbally abused by Kristen, Gina, Royal and Nintendo. He returned Royal and Nintendo back to the attic.

“Can you believe it Nintendo? The magic power of nostalgia! We are collector’s items; we’ll never see the landfill!”

“State-of-the-art!” Replied Nintendo.

As I write this my father is in the hospital after suffering two consecutive aneurysms of which he has had numerous collapses and loss of consciousness.

(After second brain bleed surgery. Dec 2024)

He has had surgery in his skull twice in the last year.

He’s received various medications including antibiotics, painkillers and psychiatric drugs (he’s diagnosed bipolar).

  • Our excellent ambulance service has come to our rescue three times in the last 6 months. When they carried him to accident and emergency, they’ve extended all courtesies towards being kind and patient with him regardless of whatever difficulties his mental state at the moment creates.
  • Nurses have provided him with all the attention and care he needs on a daily basis.
  • Because no one is able to look after him 24/7 a social worker has kept him warded at a well kept, clean and organized infirmary where he receives treatment, medication and three meals a day up until the moment he receives his pension (due April 2025) of which he can be placed in a retirement home. He has been at that infirmary for the past three months.

I shudder to think how much we would’ve had to pay if this healthcare and the services associated with it, wasn’t provided, free of charge by the State.

Left up to me alone I would’ve been bankrupt.

Or.

My father would’ve died.

Or

He’d be untreated and wandering the streets in a state of delirium until an inevitable end came to his life.

People in Trinidad constantly complain about our State health care as well as our public doctors, nurses and hospitals in general. Personally, I can only sing the praises of how fortunate we are compared to many parts of the world.

We do have our fair share of quacks wearing stethoscopes and sociopaths dressed as nurses but the day our health care services are no longer free, is the the day our country sets foot on the road to ruin.

I have had mostly good experiences with our State healthcare. I can only think fondly of the kindly Nigerian doctor speaking calmly about his love of Trinidad’s food while he stitched my busted head after a robbery. Or the doctors who saved my ex from losing her leg to a cellulitis infection after a bunch of dirty private doctors allowed the infection to prolong so as to milk as much fees as they could.

I think the profiteering of health care is one of the most underrated evils of our modern era. Even though I could give you an endless list of my problems with Trinidad and Tobago, I’m proud to say that our healthcare is not one of them.

(On the road to recovery his birthday Jan 2025)

Tart Cherry, Dark Chocolate and Cashew Granola Bars

Tart Cherry, Dark Chocolate and Cashew Granola Bars

Prep: 10 min | Cook: 15 min | Yield: 10 servings

(Family Features) For many, summertime is synonymous with outdoor adventures and on-the-go activities, ranging from biking and hiking to swimming and tennis. Choosing smart snacks that are simple to make, packed with nutrition and taste great can help power you up without slowing you down.

“Creating DIY snacks with real foods, like Montmorency tart cherries, nuts and seeds, gives your snacking habits an upgrade. Not only do ingredients like these offer endless variety in flavor and texture; their nutrient density will also make your snacks work harder for you,” said Matthew Kadey, registered dietitian and author of “Rocket Fuel: Power Packed Foods for Sports and Adventure.”

Montmorency tart cherries, which are grown in North America, are packed with anthocyanins – natural compounds that provide the ruby-red color, distinctive tart taste and potential health benefits. For those bolstering their exercise regimens this summer, there are added reasons to take a look at tart cherries. Studies have shown that Montmorency tart cherry juice may help reduce strength loss and aid recovery after extensive exercise.

Ingredients

  • 1 cup chopped raw cashews
  • 1/2 cup chopped raw almonds
  • 1/2 cup dried Montmorency tart cherries
  • 1/2 cup puffed rice cereal
  • 1/4 cup pumpkin seeds
  • 1/4 cup semi-sweet chocolate chunks
  • 1/8 teaspoon sea salt
  • 1 tablespoon whole golden flaxseeds
  • 1/4 cup brown rice syrup
  • 1 tablespoon almond butter

Instructions

  1. Heat oven to 325 degrees F; line an 8 x 8 inch baking pan with parchment paper.
  2. In bowl, mix all dry ingredients together.
  3. In small bowl, stir together syrup and almond butter until combined and gently fold into nut mixture until completely incorporated.
  4. Transfer bar mixture to prepared baking dish.
  5. Using extra sheet of parchment paper, press down on mixture to form it to pan, ensuring there are no spaces in mix.
  6. Bake for 15 minutes; allow bars to cool completely in pan on wire drying rack. Place in fridge or freezer for faster cooling.
  7. Remove parchment paper with cooled bars from pan and, using serrated knife, slice into 10 even bars. Remove parchment paper from bottom of each bar.
  8. Wrap each bar individually with plastic wrap.
  9. Place wrapped bars in airtight container and store on counter for up to 5 days, or in fridge for up to 2 weeks.

Thirty years ago I was strolling through my favourite scrap metal yard, taking the owner down the back to get a price for something that I have long since forgotten.

We passed a box a bit bigger than two large clothes washing machines, and I idly asked how much it was. “Oh, $100”. I said “Okay, I’ll take it, but I’ll have to come back in a week to collect it”.

It was a multi-page per second laser printer. It was only three months old. I found out that it had been used at a new facility for the DoD, but they just as quickly decided that they wanted to move their facility, and rather than shift the tech, they would scrap it all.

I rang several used computer brokers, and also Fujitsu to see if anyone was interested. Not one call back. It sat in my parents’ driveway for several months, until the sad day when I decided that I might as well pull it apart and scrounge the nice gear-motors, etc. I pulled one of the 30 or more foot-square boards, and then realised that I should ring the Fujitsu service dept. and see if I could get any info that would tell me about what the motors, etc. ran off. First and last guy I spoke to knew the machine and said “you can’t just pull that thing apart! It’s worth real money! Give me two weeks, and I’ll sell it for you”. 8 AM the next morning, I had a call from the same fellow offering me $10 000 for it. Deal done. It was gone in a few days.

I can’t cluck under this much gothic pressure!

I use public transportation to get to my office from my Tanzhou house. I can drive, but it is such a hassle, so I just get on the city bus, find myself a safe seat, and start banging away on the laptop for the two hour ride to and from work.

Now, for the most part, the road is fine. Oh, for certain some of those Grannies are loud talkers, and the old men haven’t washed in months, but I put on my headphones and close myself off to the world around me.

But China is a land of perpetual construction. And often enough times the bus will hit a pothole, and I will fly up in the seat about 10cm (a few inches)….

…and my post disappears.

Then weeks later I discover that it was published to the MM content accidentally.

And this was one such post.

Now it was published in Mid-March in a rough draft stage, and was mostly empty. But 52 of the good MM follower base saw it in it’s nude form.

And now you know… the story of the strange posts with a date somewhere in the title.

Today…

It’s simple.

1. the US thinks its technology is good

2. the US thinks China’s technology is not as good as its own

3. the US thinks its technology exports are helping China’s technology development.

4. the US doesn’t want to see China do well

5. the U.S. is not willing to increase its technology exports to China.


  • Technological monopoly = monopoly of power

The US sees its own technological leadership as the core capital for its global hegemony (chips, ai, aviation), and increased exports of technology will lead to a loss of power.

  • Technological generation gap = strategic security

The United States uses the technology generation gap to create a ‘security buffer zone’. For example, if China can only build 14nm chips and the United States masters 3nm, the United States military equipment will be able to maintain a generational advantage, similar to the quantitative deterrence of nuclear weapons.

  • Technology transfer = fostering rivalry

US technology exports may feed Chinese innovation. For example, the US sells airliners → China learnt large aircraft technology (C919 was born), and the US sells 4G equipment → Huawei breaks through 5G to counter. China’s innovative productivity still scares the US.

  • Suppression of rivals = consolidation of status

The United States to maintain hegemony to meet two conditions: ‘their own continued leadership (forward development)’ and ‘rivals can not lead (reverse suppression)’, so the United States to limit the technology exports to China at the same time to achieve these two goals, than simply to develop their own science and technology is more efficient.


In a nutshell, the US is afraid that China will become stronger with its technology, so it would rather make less money than get stuck with it and not sell it.

Kishore Mahbubani REVEALS China’s Strategy to Counter USA

CC Haycraft

 Blaise Carter felt her heart thunder in her chest, felt the blood swell and bloom like the kiss of a thousand roses in her cheeks. Her soft, ebony curls now fell across blazing cheek, the spirals bouncing with every angry movement. Her helter-skelter walk seemed to drag of her of it’s own accord over the floor to the target of her fury. She stared incredulously ever forward, looking up and down the hooded figure before her…”Clay!” the name sounded through gritted teeth more like some ancient curse in a long forgotten tongue.The figure that Merciful figure of death, an angel of omen stared blankly ahead at the wedding gown clad woman. A stark white to the wordless reaper’s Eigengrau cloak. The woman, nearly tripping over her train and fumbling on icy stilettos that now clacked so swiftly along the stone floor that they sounded and felt to her like the dragging of chains…The woman did not speak another word, yet her hand slammed so haphazardly forward and landed with such force across the skeletal mans face that the sound reverberated in the dank air of the crypt that hung just a bit too heavy; the feel of rot and doom here hung so stiflingly in the air that one’s chest began to heave for breath as if taking this tiny death into themselves. The man’s hood fell to the side, revealing a skull of such pale white bone that one could almost think him newly dead…

 

“We had a deal!” Blaise cried, teeth chattering and knuckles cracking from the rockling wave that she felt brewing in her stomach’s pit, “You were to take me, not Emily! She was only 20, she had so much life ahead of her, and-” her voice trailing off into the darkness of the chamber.

 

As the tempo of the racing drums of war thundered louder in her chest, baying her to action, dozens if not hundreds of memories glowed in her mind. A night in February of so many winters ago, a dark shape slinking around the corners of her house, flittering in her peripheral vision. The image of him watching her sister sleep from the window seal out in the darkness. Scenes of blood and anger (the kind of anger she felt now) and fear (the kind of fear that brewed deeply beneath this sheen of glinting rage sharpened as a knife.

 

Then came new memories, memories of him coming to her for brief moments, to return things she’d lost, to watch over her when she walked alone at night in the big city (Some nights as the glint of the ivory moon bore holes into the ground and through the trees threw strange shapes along the ground, it was unsettling to know this angel lay out in the darkness watching her; some nights she thought back to her childhood wish that he might embrace her and not the young girl set to die in front of her).

 

She saw in her mind as her teeth ground finer and finer even as she listened; the bone sifted away like delicate sand by her Mulling Masseter. Her blood boiled like flowing veins of liquid rock and molten metal as she could see the faint layer of the deepest eyes she’d ever looked into.

 

“And?” The man finally spoke with a big and empty voice that you could feel in your soul and that would make your heart drop into your knees.

 

“And, I’ve wanted you for so long! I’ve wanted you for nearly 10 years! Every time my parents fought when I was a kid and I could hear their screams down the hall, the clattering of plates on the floor. Then in college, when I couldn’t find reason to be a part of the land of the living anymore; I’d cry in my bed at night, praying for the moment I could embrace you, you’d take me in and cradle me in your cloak of everlasting twilight so that nothing could ever hurt me again…and now, today, today you take my sister who still had so much life ahead of her when you were supposed to take me!”

 

“Your sister was very sick, it was time for her to rest.”

 

“My sister needed a chance, a chance to make something of herself like I never got to. I never wanted this marriage…”

 

“What do you want?” The man queried.

 

“I want you…I’m in love with you!”

 

Their eyes met and for one brief moment Blaise could feel a warmth in those empty eye sockets that she had never felt staring into the soul of any other. One chased kiss as cold as ice was placed between the angel of death and this beacon of life. He caressed her cheek ever so gently, his cold hand reminding me of the frigid February night when they’d met. She looked again deeply into his eyes and saw there a look of passion, of regret and of restraint.

 

“Take me with you, I was already there and I can be again. Bring her back, we shared so many happy moments inspite of everything and you’ve showed me so much. I love you, please take me, not her!

 

“What is done has not been undone. You have brought me so much joy, you truly blaze, just as your namesake. You blaze with fire and passion and for the time we’ve spent together, you have been the Persephone to my Hades and you’ve shown me the most of life I’ve ever known. You made me find new love for the living that I had long forgotten, you make, you love, you fight, you hope and in time, you die.”

 

“Please…”She whimpered.

 

There was a subtle glow that suddenly emanated from deep within the skull of this lovely death that began to shine ever brighter, illuminating the crypt and basking Blaze in the frantic, fluttering glow that stuttered now like her heart. As the flame crept ever higher, lighting up darkened beams of stone that cradled the roof of the mausoleum and brought a slight smile to Blaise’s tear-stained face. She had seen this light only 3 other times. As her breath startled and caught in her marvel of the flames; she saw him now the night she’d crashed her mother’s car her junior year of college…The first time she ever saw his face (I’ll be it, she saw but a glimpse of fleshless face and the soft glow of something lit up like a jack-o-lantern through the she sheen of blood and the haze of the concussion that should have killed her…and should have killed her, he had came to her, meant to take her, but at the final moment, he could not bring himself to end something so gentle.

 

“Not now, it is because I love you that-,” whispered the man resolutely when he could again breath, “You must live, for yourself and your sister. You must find meaning.” and with that the figure was gone…

Apple-Glazed Roast Turkey with Stuffing and Gravy

Apples flavor this turkey from the chopped apple stuffing to the apple juice and jelly glaze.

Apple-Glazed Roast Turkey

Prep: 30 min | Total: 3+ hr | Yield: 14 servings

Ingredients

Stuffing

  • 12 ounces bacon slices, cut into 1/2 inch pieces
  • 4 cups chopped onions
  • 3 cups chopped celery
  • 1 cup chopped dried apples
  • 6 cups chopped pecans, toasted
  • 1 1/2 teaspoons dried thyme
  • 1 teaspoon dried sage
  • 1 (16 ounce) package cornbread stuffing crumbs
  • 2 1/2 cups low-sodium chicken broth
  • 1/2 cup butter, melted
  • Nonstick cooking spray

Turkey

  • 1 cup apple jelly
  • 1 cup apple juice
  • 1/4 cup white balsamic vinegar
  • 1/4 cup honey
  • 1/2 teaspoon salt
  • 1 (16 to 18 pound) Butterball® Fresh or Frozen Whole Turkey, thawed if frozen

Gravy

  • 1/4 cup all-purpose flour
  • 2 (14 1/2 ounce) cans low-sodium chicken broth

Instructions

Stuffing

  1. Heat oven to 350 degrees F.
  2. Cook bacon in large skillet until crisp. Remove bacon and drain on paper towels. Reserve 2 tablespoons drippings in skillet. Set bacon aside.
  3. Add onion and celery to drippings. Cook over medium-high heat for 15 to 20 minutes or until tender.
  4. Combine bacon, onion mixture, apples, pecans, thyme and sage. Stir in stuffing crumbs. Stir in broth and butter. Remove 7 cups of stuffing for stuffing turkey. Spoon remaining stuffing into 1 1/2 quart baking dish sprayed with cooking spray.
  5. Bake covered 30 minutes; uncover and bake 15 minutes.

Turkey

  1. Heat oven to 325 degrees F.
  2. Combine jelly, juice, vinegar, honey and salt in small, heavy saucepan. Bring to boil. Reduce heat and simmer until reduced to 1 1/4 cups, about 15 minutes, stirring occasionally. Reserve 1/4 cup mixture for gravy. Set remaining mixture aside for basting turkey.
  3. Remove neck and giblets from body and neck cavities of turkey. Refrigerate for another use or discard. Drain juices from turkey. Pat dry with paper towels.
  4. Fill neck cavity with part of the stuffing. Turn wings back to hold neck skin against back of turkey. Fill body cavity with remaining stuffing.
  5. Place turkey, breast up, on flat roasting rack in shallow roasting pan. Spray turkey with cooking spray. Place small pieces of aluminum foil over skin of neck cavity and over stuffing at body cavity opening to prevent over browning during roasting.
  6. Brush turkey with some glaze mixture. Loosely cover breast and tops of drumsticks with aluminum foil to prevent overcooking. Bake 2 hours.
  7. Uncover turkey breast and brush turkey with additional glaze mixture. Return foil to top of turkey and continue roasting until meat thermometer inserted deep in thigh reaches 180 degrees F. Let turkey stand for 15 minutes before removing stuffing and carving.

Gravy

  1. Pour drippings into 1-quart measure; skim fat. Whisk in flour until smooth. Add reserved glaze mixture and enough water or broth to make 3 1/2 cups. Bring to boil; reduce heat. Simmer 3 to 5 minutes or until thickened, stirring occasionally.

Nutrition

Per serving: Calories 1250 Fat 75g Cholesterol 236 Protein 75g

% Daily Value: Saturated Fat 18g 90% Trans Fat 0g 0% Sodium 1500mg 63% Carbohydrates 66g 22% Sugar 30g 0% Iron 15% Fiber 44% Calcium 10%

Our neighbours of 20 years had an adult daughter and a very young son.

I was the one our neighbour came to when her daughter had ovarian cysts and was worried they were cancer, when my neighbour was worried because she wasn’t getting pregnant, when she had a sore on her leg, etc. I helped her learn to manage her diabetes,told her that she had polycystic ovarian syndrome (which was then formally diagnosed and she was able to get pregnant), fed her cats and fish when she was on holiday, etc.

She also confided in me that both her husband and daughter were difficult for her to deal with, and she felt bullied by them. I tried to be supportive.

One day I went to go shopping and rhen to a clinical appointment, and an unknown car was right across my driveway. I went across the street to ask the neighbour there if it was one of their guests- the usual problem- but it wasn’t.

So … I called the police so they could help me figure out whose car it was. It was a bit of a banger… I had a feeling the car was stolen.

The police came- it was my neighbour’s daughter’s car. She had just bought it. She parked it across my driveway because she didn’t want to block her parent’s drive.

In front of the police, my neighbour was apologetic… so the cops didn’t ticket, which was fine with me- I didn’t want anyone to get fined, I just needed to go to my appointment. Too late now for shopping!

I get home and my neighbour flies out her door, screaming at me- apparently I should have gone door to door looking for the owner. That I struggle to walk didn’t matter. She said I could have called a taxi to go out… I said “get real” and she lunged to hit me. I pushed her back.

I closed the door on her and didn’t answer when she called. I wanted to calm down before I spoke to her.

And then… the very next morning the council came to paint the “I” bar across my driveway, specifying “no parking”. I had applied for it 7 months previously because the across-the-street neighbour’s guests were always blocking me in.

But- my neighbour thought I’d somehow called the council and got them out there in the six minutes between when they opened and when the crew arrived.

All hell broke loose.

She came out, started screaming at the crew that they had to stop, screaming at me for “trying to get her baby arrested”, for making her look bad to other neighbours… it was insane. Neighbours came out to watch the spectacle… one even brought a garden chair!

Her husband came out and physically threatened me, called me a window-licker… broke one of the tail lights on my car.

The painting crew called the police. When they arrived both my neighbours were threatened with arrest for breach of the peace. They kept screaming how this was all MY fault. Husband was put in handcuffs.

I spoke to Police and asked them *please* not to arrest him as it would make things worse for me. They agreed. They told them both to act like adults.

After they left, my neighbour said this was proof I called the police (even tho I was in front of her the entire time) and that I made her look bad by having the line painted across my driveway.

She told all our neighbours how I was out to ruin her life- made trouble for them- etc. Neighbours were coming to me looking for the gossip and all I said is “it’s complicated and I don’t want to discuss”.

For the next few years her husband threw stuff in our yard to harm my dog, sprayed weed killer on the plants on our side. When that backfired and his koi carp died, they told neighbours I poisoned my own plants and killed his fish. They did so many petty things…

It was horrible. I am autistic and neighbours who didn’t know me believed them because I’m not very social. My car was keyed. Unpleasant stuff was left in front of and in our porch. They would bang on their side of our shared wall- go out and leave music blaring… hell. Pure hell.

Until… another neighbour defended me- then our neighbours turned on THEM- but- their new targets were well known and well liked. It backfired. People did all kinds of things- I tried to just stay out of it.

They put their house up for sale a short time later saying they had been forced out because of how WE turned people against them.

The last day they were there- the only person left was the female neighbour- she brought me a lovely bouquet of flowers and said “sorry for the little misunderstandings…but… you started it by calling the police on (their daughter’s car)…”

I said “live long and prosper”.

After she left, I brought the flowers to an elderly neighbour who thought they were great.

To this day, I don’t understand why her daughter didn’t just tell me she was parking across my driveway- I would have said “no problem!” and asked her to move when/if I needed her too.

There are still some neighbours who don’t speak to me.

Oh I forgot one thing- we had a visit from a council officer with a complaint about my “loud and annoying dog-”. I showed him my black lab assistance dog who was well behaved, was never left home alone, never left outside. As he was there- he heard my neighbours’ dog. She had a westie that barked constantly. When the officer went next door, no one was home… but you could hear the dog barking from the street. The officer said they would get a letter about the dog. Guess who got blamed?

Wife DEMANDS Separation To “Look For Something Better”, Gets Humbled Instead

It was March 7th, 2001. My mom was hit and run over by a car. Twice.

That bastard driver was not looking at the road and hit her motorbike then when he backed up to see what happened, he ran over her once more!

When people pulled her from underneath the car, they said she was still conscious and this is what she said: “Please help, I have two sons. I still need to take care of them.”

She was in Viet Duc Hospital (Hanoi, Vietnam) ICU for over two weeks with 11 broken ribs. One rib had cut across her lung and ruptured it, causing massive internal bleeding. After a long while, doctors called my family in to see her, a doctor’s signal to let you know to prepare for the worst.

I held her hand and my brother held her other hand. We all cried and asked her not to leave us because we still had to go to college. She needed to see her children and her grandchildren all grown up.

Amazingly and thankfully, she survived! After two weeks in ICU, she woke up. It took her about five months to be able to walk again.

She thought about us and cared about us at despite her condition. To me, this is the most badass thing a parent has ever done.

Sir Whiskerton and the Haunting of Gnomeo’s Garden: A Tale of Fake Ghosts, Real Vampires, and a Very Judgmental Piñata

Ah, dear reader, prepare yourself for a tale so absurd, it could only sprout from the twisted mind of Gnomeo the garden gnome—a tale of pranks gone awry, a theatrically undead feline, and a piñata who silently judges everyone. So, grab your garlic (just in case) and a sense of humor (absolutely necessary), as we dive into Sir Whiskerton and the Haunting of Gnomeo’s Garden: A Tale of Fake Ghosts, Real Vampires, and a Very Judgmental Piñata.


Gnomeo’s Grand Prank

It all began on a perfectly peaceful evening—or at least, it would have been peaceful if Gnomeo hadn’t decided that the farm animals were far too relaxed.

  • Gnomeo (rubbing his tiny hands together): “Ah, what this farm needs is a little… supernatural intrigue.”
  • Bartholomew the Piñata (silently): [Judgmental swaying.]

Using nothing but a bedsheet, a fishing line, and a stolen kazoo (courtesy of the Quacking Kazoo Crew), Gnomeo rigged up the ghost of “Sir Spookerton,” a specter he claimed haunted the garden because it was “built on an ancient lettuce burial ground.”

  • First Victim: Doris the Hen

    • Gnomeo (disguised voice): “Bewaaaare… the curse of the… overwatered petunias!”
    • Doris: “Oh, cluck! Harriet, Lillian—we’re doomed!”
    • Harriet: “Doomed!”
    • Lillian: [Faints directly into a wheelbarrow.]
  • Second Victim: Porkchop the Pig

    • Gnomeo (waving sheet): “Your snacks… are MIIINE!”
    • Porkchop: “Not the cheese puffs! I’ll fight you, ghost!”
    • [Porkchop charges. Gnomeo learns pigs are surprisingly fast when snacks are threatened.]
  • Third Victim: Rufus the Dog

    • Gnomeo: “The spirit of… the mailman you never caught seeks vengeance!”
    • Rufus: “NOOOOO—wait, I don’t even chase the mailman anymore!”
    • Gnomeo: “Uh… reverse vengeance?”
    • Rufus: “Oh. Okay. Cool.”

Sir Whiskerton, observing from atop the fence, sighed. “This is the worst haunting I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen Bartholomew after a stiff breeze.”


Enter: Count Catula

Just as Gnomeo was reveling in his prank’s success, a real dramatic presence arrived.

  • [Thunder crack. Fog rolls in. A shadowy figure emerges.]
  • Count Catula (flipping cape): “Ah, mes amis! You have prepared for my arrival, non?”
  • Gnomeo: “Uh… yes? Totally. Welcome, oh… spooky guest?”
  • Count Catula: “You call zis a gothic welcome? Where are ze candelabras? Ze wailing violins? Ze blood pudding?”
  • Gnomeo (nervously offering a radish): “We’ve got… root vegetables?”
  • Count Catula: “Mon dieu. Zis is an outrage.”

Turns out, Count Catula had actually been haunting the garden for weeks, “napping in the shadows like a sophisticated specter.” Gnomeo’s fake ghost had insulted him by being “amateur hour undead.”

  • Count Catula: “A bedsheet? A KAZOO? I am appalled.”
  • Sir Whiskerton: “To be fair, you do sleep in a coffin made of old shoeboxes.”
  • Count Catula: “Artisanal shoeboxes!”

The Haunting Escalates

Now, the garden had two supernatural nuisances:

  1. Gnomeo’s “ghost,” which kept getting tangled in the tomato vines.
  2. Count Catula, who demanded “proper ambiance”—i.e., everyone wearing black and dramatically sighing.
  • Count Catula: “You zere, Piñata! Why do you not mourn?”
  • Bartholomew: [Silent, judgmental swaying.]
  • Count Catula: “Très bien. A fellow brooder.”

Meanwhile, the animals were over it.

  • Doris: “I can’t cluck under this much gothic pressure!”
  • Porkchop: “I miss when the only thing haunting me was hunger.”
  • Rufus: “Can ghosts fetch? Asking for a friend.”

Sir Whiskerton’s Solution

Realizing this haunting had gone too far, Sir Whiskerton brokered a truce.

  • Step 1: Gnomeo apologized by building Count Catula a “throne” out of garden tools.
  • Step 2: Count Catula agreed to “haunt responsibly” (i.e., only after 8 PM).
  • Step 3: Bartholomew finally spoke: “This was… unnecessary.”
  • Everyone: “GASP. HE SPOKE!”

The Moral of the Story

As peace returned to the garden (save for Count Catula’s occasional “woe is me” soliloquies), the animals reflected.

The moral, dear reader, is this: Pranks backfire when real drama queens show up. And sometimes, the true haunting is the friends we annoyed along the way.


A Happy Ending

  • Gnomeo: Banned from “supernatural pranks” (but allowed to mildly startle squirrels).
  • Count Catula: Named “Official Garden Vampire” (with a tiny black parasol).
  • Bartholomew: Went back to silently judging everyone. As it should be.
  • Sir Whiskerton: Took a nap. Finally.

The End.


Post-Story Summaries

Moral: Pranks backfire when real drama queens show up.

Best Lines:

  • “You call zese hors d’oeuvres? Where’s ze blood pudding?” – Count Catula
  • “This was… unnecessary.” – Bartholomew
  • “Can ghosts fetch?” – Rufus

Post-Credit Scene:
Count Catula tries to haunt the farmer, who mistakes him for a “funny-looking black cat” and offers him milk.

Key Jokes:

  • Gnomeo’s kazoo-powered ghost.
  • Porkchop fighting a radish-wielding gnome.
  • Bartholomew’s one line stealing the show.

Starring:

  • Sir Whiskerton as the Exasperated Mediator
  • Gnomeo as the Prankster Turned Pawn
  • Count Catula as the Overly Dramatic Vampire
  • Bartholomew as the Silent (But Deadly) Judge

P.S.
Remember: If your garden gnome suggests a “fun haunting,” run.

I was in Florida planning to return to Canada in 10 days. Felt short of breath. My son drove me back to Canada and we stopped at local hospital before I reached my home. I was 3rd in line at emergency. A lot of lights went of. Slow heart beat. This was 5 pm Tuesday.

On Wed I was sent by ambulance about 20 miles to a larger hospital. Thursday at 8am I had a pace maker installed. I had hot and cold running nurses for next 5 days. Return visit in 2 days for check up. On a 6 week visit at my local hospital mainly for system monitoring and not the pace maker.

This damn ordeal cost me $5 for parking.

Mel

The Secret To Making Women Chase You Explained By Dan Bilzerian

Newbie executive from corporate, fresh with his new suit and tie, decided to come “clean up the place” and “get a much better system” for our cooks. Great, just what I needed, some suit telling me how to run a restaurant, who probably never stepped foot into the back of one before.

“First off, this place is a mess!” he exclaims, “nobody is going home until it’s all been cleaned top to bottom!”. Sir, excuse me, where exactly am I going to get the funds to pay these folks overtime? “Let me worry about that you just make sure they are working.”. Right away boss.

Next he disappears into the office to “see what we can do about scheduling”. He then deletes my current schedule, and begins methodically placing people into different shifts. Um, sir, she can’t work those hours she has no car. He can’t do that because he has a limitation, she can’t operate the slicer she is not legally old enough. “You’ll figure out how to make this work. See i just got rid of all your gaps! You should thank me.” What could I say, our labor will now be off the charts. I have gaps to keep it low, there was a reason for all of this. Any restaurant owner knows during the really slow times of day we keep minimum staff to cut costs. At least it isn’t my butt that will get chewed, well hopefully.

Finally he decided our stock was way too much money wasting away. Sir, the delivery truck can only come certain days, they will charge us extra for any different ones. Look at my food costs and waste, they are pretty darn low! Nope, I had to cut stock and get more deliveries. More costs added to my bottom line.

It took only a few weeks for corporate to call. What the heck was up with my books they exclaimed!!! Where did all of this extra expense suddenly come from? My long email detailed the lack of employees showing up due to scheduling, the overtime paid for the massive cleaning, and forcing folks to fill in where others could not make it. Then there were the delivery fees added to my orders. This absolutely horrible system he had installed was killing me and our peofits! But he was corporate, and if they want me to keep at it then I will. The response I got back? Just fix it. And I did. He never showed back up at any of my locations.

Jes Oakheart

Captain Fletch knew she was walking into a trap, but she couldn’t help herself. She and her Engineering Officer, Paola, and Weapons Officer, Jenkins, stood on the bridge of the Starling Sunstrider waiting for the ship’s scanners to verify the distress call they’d received. Fletch was quite familiar with the supposedly derelict ship that floated aimlessly nearby. The distress call from the Bittern Blight said the crew had abandoned the vessel and stole the two escape pods, but not before removing the antimatter synthesizer, rendering the ship unable to fly and taking life support offline. Supposedly, Captain Quill was the only soul to remain aboard and she was gravely injured.The monitor flashed as the scanners completed their check. “Life support is down and both pods have been deployed,” Fletch confirmed. “Onboard temperatures have dropped significantly. My guess is that they’ve got an hour at most before the remaining oxygen is gone.”“Your orders?” Jenkins asked.
Fletch chewed her lip. It certainly had to be a trap. She’d not been warring against Quill for the last decade for it all to be over because her crew mutinied. Quill was too smart, too calculated. She guessed that Quill’s crew were in their spacesuits, the Mechanical Officer lingering in the engine room ready to turn on life support the moment after they’d lured Fletch onboard. Surely they all laid in wait, plasma pistols charged and ready to go. Fletch had to give Quill some credit for the brilliance of her strategy. Who could resist the siren’s song of an enemy’s distress beacon?But just as Fletch was about to issue the order to leave the Bittern and jump to hyperspace, the comm screen lit up and a chime indicated an incoming call. It was Quill. Fletch rolled her eyes and cleared her throat. “This ought to be good.” She tapped the button to answer the call and crossed her arms.The screen illuminated with Quill’s face, though the bridge of the Bittern was darker than usual and she was difficult to make out. “I hardly believed it when I saw it was you,” she said, her voice hoarse and weak. She was not wearing a spacesuit nor had any supplemental oxygen.

“I’m not falling for it, Quill,” Fletch glowered. “Pack up your little ruse and I’ll consider not blowing you out of the sky.”

“I’m surprised you’re even here,” Quill said, groaning and shifting her weight in her chair. “Last I heard you were in the Daxalon Nebula. You were the only ship to respond to my distress call.”

Fletch squinted her eyes at the image of Quill on the monitor. She’d spoken with her many times through the comms, yet she’d never seen Quill so disheveled. She seemed to actually be in pain.

“Look,” Quill continued, “I’ve been shot. Life support is down. My crew abandoned me. Ship’s disabled. If you’re going to blow me out of the sky, do it.” Fletch exchanged glances with Paola and Jenkins. “I know you hate me. I’d hate me too. But like I said, you were the only one to respond to my distress call. Is this really how you want our war to end? Me dying at the hands of a crew that hadn’t been paid in months? If you won’t help me, at least come over here and deal the final blow yourself. I surrender. You win.”

The comm went dark as Quill ended the call. A strange and uncomfortable sensation welled up within Fletch. There was something sincere in Quill’s tone and facial expression. Though the captain’s instincts urged her to leave the Bittern in the dust, she was thoroughly tempted by Quill’s offer to look her in the eye and kill her. A rivalry that began in flight school and had escalated to a decade of deep space battles, subterfuge, and endless mocking calls on the comms might finally come to an end. And Fletch wanted it to be a poetic, epic ending. She’d spent too much time thinking of nothing but besting Quill. Even though it might be a trap, Fletch couldn’t resist.

“I’m getting suited up,” she said with a long-suffering sigh. “Paola, I want an escort of no less than ten. Jenkins, I want every gun trained on that ship.”

“Aye,” Paola and Jenkins said in unison. Fletch knew they did not approve of this plan. Yet they’d stood by her through many years of back-and-forth battles with Quill and accepted that being part of her crew meant obliging the captain’s thirst for victory.

Fletch retreated to her private quarters to don her spacesuit. She needed a moment alone. On the off chance that this wasn’t a trap and that her war with Quill had reached its end, she tried to imagine what life would be like without her mortal enemy lingering in the shadows, waiting for her to misstep. What would she do if she wasn’t exacting revenge on the woman who’d wiped out half the colony on Everron 7 where she’d grown up? Though that was the most grievous of Quill’s offenses, their war didn’t start there.

It started in flight school, not the one on the central planets, but the one on Jupiter’s moon Europa. Though the star system that contained the First Earth had largely been abandoned, a few older outposts remained. The Europa flight school cost much less than the one on Haversol, a draw for both Fletch and Quill who grew up on newly colonized frontier planets. Both girls were smart, oversaturated with aptitude and an insatiable desire for success. They fought fiercely against one another for the best grades, placements with the top instructors, and internships on the biggest battlecruisers.

What began as an academic rivalry became much higher stakes when the pair of them graduated with honors and immediately found work on opposing sides of a squabble in the Hyperion Galaxy. They rose through the ranks until they were able to afford their own spaceships and free themselves from fighting other people’s wars. Across their time on Europa and in Hyperion, they’d become obsessed with outdoing the other. It became their purpose, their life’s mission. They chased each other through the cosmos firing their guns at one another, blowing up sentimental places the other cherished, and taunting each other endlessly through the comms.

And now, a decade later, it might be coming to an end.

Fletch bundled her curly hair at the nape of her neck and tucked it into the collar of her spacesuit. She glanced at herself in the mirror, noticing the bags under her eyes and the wrinkles on her forehead. She was only in her thirties, but she looked much older. The war with Quill had exhausted her.

She put two fresh charge packs into her pistol and holstered the weapon at her side. She pressed the button to extend the spacesuit’s helmet over her head. The dome clicked into place with a hiss of air and she was ready.

Leaving her quarters, Fletch met her ten armed crew members at the airlock. Their orders were simple– the crew would secure the Bittern while Fletch went to the bridge to find Quill. Shoot on sight. Take no prisoners. This was a war, after all.

Fletch opened the airlock and a gust of wind flushed from the Starling into the Bittern. She wondered how long the crew of the Bittern had been shivering without life support, waiting for the trap to be sprung.

The automated voice of the Bittern echoed through the tunnel connecting the two ships: “Life support failure.” Fletch heard the repeating warning faintly in the background during her comm call with Quill, but she didn’t expect to feel so unnerved when they finally boarded the ship. The warning was one no star-farer ever wanted to hear, even if it was a farce.

They stepped through the opening and onto the Bittern’s main deck. The emergency lights were flickering and everything was quiet aside from the repeating message that life support was down. Fletch examined the monitor at her wrist, checking the oxygen levels and determining them to still be habitable, particularly with an open connection to the Starling.

“Keep your wits about you,” she said as the crew dispersed.

It was surreal to be on Quill’s turf. Their battles always took place in the vacuum of space or on various planets or moons. They never boarded one another’s vessel. It was more intimate than Fletch thought it would be. How many times had Quill walked these hallways? What conversations had she entertained in these rooms? She passed through the mess hall, noticing dirty dishes still lingering on the tables. She glanced at one of the plates, wondering what Quill and her crew ate when they weren’t planet-side. Spaghetti and meatballs by the looks of it. An old comfort dish from the First Earth. So simple, so plain. So human.

Fletch’s earbud crackled as one of her crew checked in. “The cargo hull is clear.” Then not long after, another message came through. “The engine room is clear. Confirming a missing antimatter synthesizer.” Fletch’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Maybe it wasn’t a trap after all. Maybe Quill had told them the truth. She’d find out soon enough.

Fletch tightened her grip on her pistol as she opened the door to the bridge. It was empty save for the captain’s seat at the helm. All she could see of Quill was the high bun she coiled her hair into, just peeking up from the back of the chair. There was a puddle of blood on the floor below her.

“The crew quarters and med bay are clear,” her crew reported through the earbud.

“So you really did come to see me one last time,” Quill said, her back to Fletch. “At least look me in the eye when you do it. Shooting me in the back of the head is hardly worth the effort of coming over here. Make it a good story at least.”

Fletch saw that the med kit by the door had been opened and a trail of blood led back to the captain’s chair. The emergency spacesuit on the rack against one of the walls had bloody handprints on it. Quill had tried to don the spacesuit but was too injured to do so. A pistol lay abandoned on the floor, indicating that Quill was unarmed.

Fletch’s earbud chirped again. “The ship is clear. No crew aboard. Both escape pods deployed. Your orders, Captain?”

“By now I’m sure your people have informed you that this isn’t a trap,” Quill said, as if she’d been able to sense the communication Fletch had just received.

Fletch was speechless, both to her crew asking for orders and to her rival bleeding out. She gripped her pistol and approached Quill’s chair, wondering what it would be like to finally meet her face-to-face again after all these years. She noticed a hand-knit blanket lying on the floor and a heavily worn copy of The Hobbit next to it. Print books were rare and difficult to find, especially ones originating from the First Earth. She passed around the side of Quill’s seat and faced her.

Quill was wearing gray sweatpants and a black tank top, her hair thrown up into the messiest topknot Fletch had ever seen. She clutched a wad of gauze to her belly, blood dripping from it and onto her sweats. She was shivering, her gooseflesh skin sallow where it wasn’t crimson.

Quill started down the barrel of Fletch’s gun defiantly. Yet, Fletch did not shoot. The voice on the other end of Fletch’s earbud once again asked for orders. She ignored it. Then, of all things, she lowered her gun and tapped the button to retract the helmet of her spacesuit. It had been years since she’d seen Quill through anything but a comm display and she felt she owed her rival one last look at her face.

“Do you remember the atmospheric physics class we took in our second year?” Quill asked. “The one taught by Professor Walen?”

“Yes. What about it?”

“Do you remember when she promised a letter of commendation to the student who could earn the highest mark and our whole study group turned on one another?”

Fletch stifled a laugh. “I remember Arne dumping a protein shake onto my keyboard. They just gave me a new one.”

“It was so dumb,” Quill bantered. Then she shifted uncomfortably in her chair and shivered.

Fletch wondered why Quill wasn’t wrapped in the blanket lying on the floor. She thought for a moment about picking it up and handing it to her, but then realized it was pointless given the circumstances.

“Do you regret it? Any of this?” Quill asked. Fletch wasn’t sure how to answer. “I do,” Quill continued in the silence. “How embarrassing to have made it as far as I have, only to have my crew mutiny and abandon me. I guess that’s what happens when you put all your focus onto an end goal with no consideration for how to get there.”

“You didn’t pay your crew, what did you expect would happen?” Fletch scoffed.

“I know. I flew too close to the sun.”

“That’s a terrible metaphor given that you’re freezing on a ship that can’t fly.”

“If you could get a do-over, one do-over, what would you fix?” Quill asked, ignoring the jab. Fletch shrugged. Quill gazed at her and then sighed. “It doesn’t matter now. Thank you, I suppose, for visiting me one last time and giving me the dignity of seeing your face before you kill me. It’s been an honor, Captain Fletch.” She sat up as best she could and saluted her rival. “Good war. I am ready for it to be done.”

“Captain, your orders?” Fletch’s earbud buzzed for a third time.

Fletch was uneasy, a pain in her stomach filling her with dread and sour bile. There was something so wrong about all of this. This wasn’t the victory she wanted. This was just sad. But beyond that, as she pictured a life going forward, one in which Quill was not there, it felt surprisingly empty. What would she do without someone to chase through the galaxies? Her entire life revolved around Quill and she wasn’t sure what she’d do without her. Her purpose had been to destroy Quill, but now that the moment had arrived, she didn’t want it.

Fletch tapped her computer cuff, finally responding to her crew’s inquiries. “Return to the Starling. Prep the OR for surgery and notify Dr. Hammond. Plasma gun wound to the abdomen, major blood loss.”

“Are you injured, Captain?” somebody asked through the earbud. “Shall we send a stretcher?”

“No and no. I’ll bring her myself.”

“Excuse me?” Paola interjected. “Are you bringing Captain Quill onboard?”

“Yes,” Fletch replied, taking a deep breath and studying Quill’s face. “This war is over.”

“No, no,” Quill protested as Fletch holstered her gun and walked over to the knit blanket on the floor. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do,” Fletch retorted. She picked up the blanket and approached Quill. “Can you stand?”

“No,” Quill whispered.

Fletch nodded, her eyes soft and face calm. She bundled Quill in the blanket and then lifted her up and cradled the woman in her arms. Quill gave up the fight and accepted rescue.

“Wait,” Quill mumbled as they began to leave the bridge. “My book. It’s rare, I spent forever trying to find it.”

Fletch understood. This was the last time Quill would see her ship. Once they were evacuated, it would be scavenged and scrapped by brigands. A ship without its captain or crew was easy pickings. Fletch lowered Quill just enough for the injured woman to grab The Hobbit off the floor. Quill clutched the book to her chest.

Then Fletch carried Quill out of the Bittern. They moved through the passageways and the mess hall, Quill peering around at her ship for the last time. Fletch looked down at the woman in her arms. It was perhaps the closest they’d been to each other since that one night back in the dorms on Europa. Quill rested her head against her rescuer’s collarbone. How had their rivalry begun? They had been friends before they were enemies. It was more than just competitive classwork that ruined their connection. Then Fletch remembered, gazing at Quill’s face so close that she could lean down and kiss her.

Fletch had broken Quill’s heart, rejected her after they’d shared one single night of intimacy. She wasn’t ready for a relationship with another woman. She cared a great deal for Quill, but she was scared. Quill had been in love and did not take the rejection well, seeking out revenge in its wake. That’s where it all started. And though Fletch thought she hated Quill, she reminded herself that hate and love often feel the same.

The opposite of love is indifference. Even a galaxy away, she bolted to the Bittern the moment Quill’s distress call went out. She was the only one to come to Quill’s aid. And here she was, personally carrying Quill to safety. They’d been obsessed with each other for a decade and Fletch’s world revolved around Quill. Wasn’t it obvious why? Sometimes it’s easier to hate than it is to love.

Fletch squeezed Quill in her arms as they crossed back onto her ship, the nearest thing to a hug either had shared in quite some time. She felt Quill’s body relax, comforted by the closeness. Though Quill’s time with the Bittern had come to an end, a fresh beginning was blossoming on the Starling. Fletch was finally ready to try something new.

“You’re going to be okay,” Fletch whispered. “We’re going to be okay.”

“I know,” Quill breathed, her expression of pain melting away. “I know.”

Bacon-Wrapped Turkey Breast

Imagine a turkey breast pounded thin and rolled up with stuffing and cranberry sauce. Nice, huh? Now imagine it wrapped in bacon. Guaranteed. Win.

Bacon-Wrapped Turkey Breast

Ingredients

  • 1/4 cup Kraft Balsamic Vinaigrette Dressing
  • 1 small onion, chopped
  • 1 (1 3/4 pound) boneless skinless turkey breast, butterflied
  • 1/2 cup water
  • 1 (6 ounce) package Stove Top Lower Sodium Stuffing Mix for Chicken
  • 3/4 cup canned whole berry cranberry sauce, divided
  • 8 slices Oscar Mayer Lower Sodium Bacon
  • 6 fresh sage leaves

Instructions

  1. Heat oven to 400 degrees F.
  2. Heat dressing in small nonstick skillet on medium heat.
  3. Add onions; cook for 10 minutes or until crisp-tender, stirring frequently. Cool.
  4. Pound turkey to 1/2 inch thickness. Place turkey between 2 sheets of plastic wrap; pound with meat mallet or rolling pin to desired thickness.
  5. Add water to stuffing mix in medium bowl; stir just until moistened.
  6. Stir in onions; spoon down one long side of turkey.
  7. Spoon 1/4 cup cranberry sauce next to stuffing.
  8. Starting at covered side, roll up turkey breast; place, seam side down, on parchment-covered rimmed baking sheet.
  9. Wrap bacon, with slices slightly overlapping, around turkey. (Turkey should be completely covered with bacon.)
  10. Top with sage; press gently into bacon.
  11. Spray foil with cooking spray; place over turkey, gently pressing foil onto bacon.
  12. Bake for 50 to 55 minutes or until turkey is done (165 degrees F), uncovering after 30 minutes.
  13. Serve with remaining cranberry sauce.
  14. Garnish with additional fresh sage leaves before serving.

Prep: 15 min | Total: 1 hr 10 min | Yield: 8 servings

Notes

How to Butterfly the Turkey Breast: Place turkey on cutting board; carefully cut turkey horizontally in half, starting at thickest long side of breast, being careful not to cut all the way through to opposite side. Open like a book.

Nutrition

Per serving: Calories 290

% Daily Value Total fat 7g Saturated fat 2g Cholesterol 60mg Sodium 440mg Carbohydrate 29g Dietary fiber 1g Sugars 13g Protein 26g

Vitamin A 0% DV Vitamin C 6% DV Calcium 2% DV Iron 10% DV

* Nutrition information is estimated based on the ingredients and cooking instructions as described in each recipe and is intended to be used for informational purposes only. Please note that nutrition details may vary based on methods of preparation, origin and freshness of ingredients used.

Yes, several times.

It was discovered that I was allergic to seafood. My dad took the family out to dimmer at a seafood restaurant. Dad ordered shrimp and lobster for me.

I took one bite and next thing I knew, I woke up in the hospital.

No more seafood for the baby, my dad said.

Here was the problem: my elders didn’t “believe in” food allergies and insisted that I was just spoiled and babied by my dad.

My aunt (Dad’s sister who hated me before I took my first breath) made pasta with shrimp and fed it to me. I immediately had a reaction and probably would have died had my uncle (Dad’s brother) not alerted my dad to the situation.

My dad sat with me at the hospital for several days. My aunt just said, “I was just trying to show her that shrimp is fine to eat,” prompting my dad to cut contact for a while. I was never left with her unsupervised, at least not when I was of an age where I was still a bit defenseless.

My uncle made me a peanut butter sandwich. I had an immediate reaction, but no one knew about it; it was a new allergy. My uncle felt awful, but my dad told him it was just a freak accident and I was fine.

Another aunt offered me a bite of her dessert, a strawberry shortcake. Landed in the hospital again. This was also new.

The family all knew this.

Two of my aunts (one maternal, other paternal) got me cakes and supper for my birthday. My paternal aunt got me a German chocolate cake and seafood from Red Lobster (I think, not certain) and took offense when I refused to eat it, calling me spoiled and ungrateful. My dad pointed out that I couldn’t eat anything she brought and it was her own fault that she wasted her money. I think I was about seven or so.

My maternal aunt got me a cake. Problem was, it was a Reese’s peanut butter cake and I almost ate some when my dad snatched it away and read my aunt the riot act. I was about nine then.

Family gatherings were the worst. I would be served something I couldn’t have and was forced to sit at the table until I cleaned my plate. My dad often had to run interference so I didn’t die.

My mother was the absolute worst. She insisted that I was just a picky eater (I was) and I needed to be taught to eat. So one Saturday when I was nine, my mother made me a peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich and ended up breaking it into pieces and forcing them into my mouth and then covering my mouth so I couldn’t spit it out.

Luckily Dad came home right then. I couldn’t breathe and my dad freaked out and rushed me to the hospital. This time I was there for three weeks.

When I came home, my dad took over preparing my meals and fixing my plates at family gatherings. I was never left unsupervised with any of the elders and when my paternal aunt fed me shrimp pasta, knowing I was allergic, my dad pressed charges.

This nearly destroyed the family. It would be years before we reconciled because my dad didn’t feel like he could trust his family not to kill me.

My grandfather understood and would ask my dad what was safe for me. So I spent a lot of time with him. If he got something for himself that I turned out to be allergic to, he would get rid of it, wash his hands and even clean the area we were in, just to be safe. Even though my grandpa loved fish fry Friday’s, he would skip it for my sake. My dad suggested offering chicken as an alternative, but it was fried in the same grease as the fish and that didn’t help.

So my grandpa and dad arranged to fry chicken separately and not in peanut oil. The rest of the community finally understood and kept me safe.

But my own family nearly killed me because they didn’t “believe in” having food allergies.

Allergies are not to be played with and must ALWAYS be taken seriously.

Because someone’s life depends on it.

I don’t know.

How about just talking about Germany?

Rcently, a major hot topic on the Chinese internet is that Germany demolished the Moorburg coal-fired power plant, which cost $4 billion to build.

This was an ultra-supercritical technology power plant.

(This technology is not simple. Only China, the United States, Germany, and Japan possess it worldwide. Moreover, in 2020, these four countries signed a treaty due to “environmental protection,” agreeing not to export it to other nations. Yes, because of “environmental protection,” they stopped exporting it… You read that right. For the sake of “environmental protection”…)

China is among the world leaders in this technology, with the best benchmark (under ideal conditions) being 264 grams of coal per kilowatt-hour, producing very little pollution. The most advanced plants in China operate at around 280 grams during production.

Meanwhile, the Moorburg power plant achieved a high standard of 285 grams per kilowatt-hour. (For comparison, another big player in this technology, Japan, lags behind Germany with a figure close to 304 grams.)

In fact, although China is doing quite well now, less than 10 years ago, we sent several teams of engineers to the Moorburg power plant to learn from their German counterparts.

We absolutely cannot understand why the Germans would blow up their own highly advanced power plant.

There’s been a ton of discussion about this on the Chinese internet.

One conspiracy theory suggests that some politicians invested in other energy projects, so they used environmental concerns as a pretext to eliminate a competitor.

Hmm, that kind of makes sense?

I’d guess that the Chinese are more heated and heartbroken over the demolition of this power plant than the Germans themselves.

I’ve seen multiple netizens lose it, ranting and cursing, and then everyone chimes in to console them, saying, “Bro, are you a power plant engineer or something?”

And sure enough, they actually are.

Good thing my field isn’t coal-fired power generation, or I’d be so mad my blood pressure would shoot through the roof.

I have a pretty good impression of Germany—after all, the revolutionary mentors Marx and Engels were both German.

When I was in elementary and middle school, our school walls always had portraits of these four great figures: Marx, Engels, Lenin, and Stalin. Hmm, it seems China was quite influenced by Europe—two Germans and two Russians… Might as well hang a portrait of Empress Catherine instead?Combine like terms!

Also, I’d like to say: German engineers, if you really can’t accept this, why not leave? Go work in a country that respects engineers, like China?

(At least you wouldn’t have to worry about the food—German cuisine is quite similar to Northeast Chinese cuisine. Things like sauerkraut and blood sausage are really alike. When Merkel visited China, she ate two bowls of that sauerkraut pork dish! And there’s nothing else to worry about either. For example, when Ukrainian scientists came to China back in the day, China built an entire Ukrainian-style town for them, replicating everything from the climate to the food, plants, and architecture.)

“Tea isn’t a thing, man—it’s a vibration.” – Zephyr

About 200 years ago, during the Qing Dynasty, China exported large quantities of porcelain, silk, and other raw materials to the West, while importing very few Western goods. This resulted in a huge trade surplus for China, especially in trade with countries like Britain and France. Massive amounts of silver flowed into China, which caused dissatisfaction among Western powers.

They came up with a solution: selling opium to the Chinese. The massive imports of opium offset the trade surplus. Just as the Chinese government was preparing to ban the opium trade entirely, Western aggressors launched two wars of invasion against China. These became known as the humiliating “Opium Wars” in Chinese history (two in total), and they are a period that no Chinese person will ever forget.

Two hundred years later, China, through large-scale machinery and manpower, now manufactures the most comprehensive and wide-ranging commercial products in the world and exports them globally. Certain aggressors are once again trying to reverse the situation through hegemony and warfare—isolating, blockading, and imposing “tariff barriers” on China. Will history’s humiliation be repeated? The 1.4 billion Chinese people will never allow it.

China understands this deeply: surrendering or kneeling will not bring dignity or equality. Only strength grants a voice.

Now, the tide has turned. China’s military power has become the first line of defense safeguarding the nation’s economic sovereignty.

If China didn’t have its own military power as a safeguard, the U.S. wouldn’t be waging a tariff and trade war against China — it would be a real war. But now the world has turned upside down, and China is no longer the China of 200 years ago.

Russia Brutally Took Revenge on NATO and UKRAINE For Launching Eight ATACMS Missiles on BELGOROD

I spent 40 years in the Merchant Marine…

Get your son three pieces of luggage…

  • A wheeled 90 liter duffel bag.
    • Most of the time, a “regular rotation” to the same ship will allow your son to leave most of his gear on board the ship, but in a pinch, it all needs to be kept in a bag that can be shipped home if his assignment is changed suddenly.
  • A “Carry-On” size backpack… Be careful here, the airlines have been reducing the allowable size of this item…. The current record holder for smallest is “WestJet” with 21x15x9 inches….
    • All of your sons essentials need to be carried here, with enough room for a change of clothes… Once assigned to a particular ship, most of his travel can be done out of this bag.
  • OPTIONAL – A large computer bag… This is the “Other” item allowed as a carry-on, so take advantage and get the largest bag that will fit under an airline seat, which is 18 inches x 14 inches x 8 inches.

Tell your son I’m proud of him…

Grilled San Antonio Leg of Pork

Show your guests a little leg. This fresh leg roast is a great way to welcome the summer grilling season. Serve with grilled vegetables, fresh seasonal fruit and try Jícama Salad with Chile and Lime.

Grilled San Antonio Leg of Pork

Yield: 8 to 10 servings

Ingredients

  • 1/2 fresh pork leg roast, about 3 1/2 to 4 pounds
  • Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
  • 1/2 cup smoky barbecue sauce
  • 1/2 cup grape jelly
  • 2 teaspoons chili powder

Instructions

  1. Prepare medium-hot banked fire in kettle-style grill. Season pork roast with salt and pepper. Grill over indirect heat, not directly over fire, in covered grill.
  2. Meanwhile, stir together barbecue sauce, jelly and chili powder.
  3. After roast has been on grill for 30 minutes, start basting with sauce mixture every 5 to 10 minutes until internal temperature of roast, measured with a meat thermometer, reads 150 degrees F, 20 to 30 minutes more.
  4. Remove roast from grill and let rest 5 minutes before slicing to serve.

Nutrition

Per serving: Calories 328 calories; Protein 38 grams; Fat 13 grams; Sodium 248 milligrams; Cholesterol 110 milligrams; Saturated Fat 4 grams; Carbohydrates 14 grams; Fiber 0 grams

Lee Golightly

  He turned on the light in the bathroom, but it didn’t feel right, so he did it again. That one felt better, but it wasn’t quite there yet. Two more times, and he moved on. He had tried his best.His fuzzy outline in the mirror showed a mop of bed-headed brown locks overshadowing squinting cobalt blue eyes. She told him sometimes that his eyes were beautiful, but he could never believe it. They didn’t see enough, and the things they did see weren’t good enough. She loved his eyes and presumably the rest of him, but could she open him up and see what was inside? Could she love a heart that was little more than a mass of blood, vessels and tissues? Who was he? And who was she, really? Would he ever know?Wait.“Where’s my toothbrush?” he called to the kitchen.“I don’t know. I didn’t touch it,” she answered. The voice was faraway but somehow strong.“I never move my toothbrush. You must have moved it.”“Nope.” She didn’t want him to ask again.

He sighed and licked his teeth. He was sure that something from his teeth was adhering to his tongue, something stale and gangrenous. With a wrinkled nose, he spread some toothpaste on his finger and worked it around his teeth for about five minutes. He then rinsed and spit multiple times. The finger pulsated with filth afterward, so he rinsed that several times too.

It doesn’t have to be this way, he thought. Who really cares about my teeth? If they all fall out, if my gums receded into the hollow maws where my jaw should be and I become unable to eat anything above the firmness of gelatin, who would run to my side? Would she come to me? Would she even understand? Why am I going to this effort, other than to quiet the thoughts that intrude upon me constantly?

Wait.

“My shampoo’s missing too,” he shouted. This shout pierced the air a little more sharply. “What did you do with it?”

“I didn’t touch your shampoo,” was the response floating through the wall.

How could she not have touched his shampoo? He certainly would never have moved it. To do so would have instilled a discomfort that could not be easily uprooted – not in a minute, hour, day, or even week. His shampoo bathed his hair, which made his scalp tingle, which quieted the thoughts. He could comb his hair then, smooth it and shape it with gel, fretting as he ran the comb again and again. Once the hair was in place, he could go to work and have a tolerable day. She didn’t see the shampoo, that it was the catalyst for making the day work. Not that anyone cared about his hair, of course. She hadn’t mentioned it in a while, either. Did she not see him anymore? Do we no longer see the things we care about, once they become commonplace?

Where was his shampoo bottle?

Battling the swirl of anger stirring in his parietal lobes, he turned on the water and made sure it was comfortable. He let the warm water slide over his skin, and tried to feel each drop. Glancing to his left and right, he was surprised to discover that the soap wasn’t there either. What had she been doing? Was she trying to drive him mad? He dared not holler again, for fear of antagonizing her. Rather than use her soap, he simply stood as still as a statue and let the water do what it could. It was better that way.

After finishing the shower and toweling off, he trudged back to his dresser and began the daily rummaging routine. Half his socks seemed to have disappeared, along with some of his shirts. What did it matter, though? Nobody stared at him as he was working. No one checked on his well-being. Who cares what shirt was on him?

Hungry and irritated, he went to the kitchen where she was washing dishes. He still hadn’t gotten that dishwasher, but he had promised he would someday. She didn’t turn around as he inspected the refrigerator. It seemed rather sparse compared to the day before. Had she thrown out all his favorite foods? He settled on toast, and he didn’t let it cook long enough. There was no butter or jelly, for some reason, so he choked down the dry bread and tried to chase it with some water.

Wait.

“Where’s my favorite cup? Is it dirty?”

“I don’t see it over here,” she said to the wall.

Frustrated, he grabbed a cup he could find and threw some liquid down his gravely throat. He then went to the door.

“Bye,” he said as he put on his boots.

“Bye,” she said, never turning around. A cup, no doubt his favorite one that wasn’t in the cupboard, clunked against the stainless steel sink basin.

He walked outside and got into his car, the one he loved so much. It was a beauty, American, with a leather package. He reached down and picked a stray seedling off the carpet, then gently deposited it outside. The carpet was a matte black with gold trim around where it met the base of the console. His bucket seats cradled their passengers with a tenderness a mother would envy. His after-market radio sprang to life as he turned the key, a futuristic beam of light rolling around its perimeter as it booted up. It synced to his phone, but nothing happened. No songs played for him. He caressed his steering wheel and weighed whether he should stop and fix the connection.

Then, he chose silence.

Perhaps it wasn’t the best decision, as his thoughts crowded his mind. He tried to turn them off, but decided against it. Perhaps it was better to let them slosh about anyway, letting them concuss his brain and press down against his spinal cord. They swam in front of his eyes and rushed past his ear canal, rendering him blind to what he saw and deaf to what he heard. And just like that, he was at work. He parked at the end of the lot, where no one bothered to park and no strangers’ doors swung wildly. As he got out, he noted how fast the trip seemed and how sparse the buildings seemed to be.

He worked for hours. Many nodded a greeting to him, but few spoke to him. He noticed that the lady who usually offered him mints wasn’t there. No matter. Who would get close enough to be bothered by his breath, anyway?

The day did not go well. His tools weren’t there – or maybe they were, he couldn’t be sure. It seemed as though they had slowly begun to disappear, one by one, like so many shampoo bottles. Were they being stolen? Was he misplacing them? The thoughts wouldn’t let him determine the answer.

Wait.

“Can I speak to you?” asked He.

The approach had been stealthy, and he jumped a little. “Yes,” he said. He hoped his slow exhale couldn’t be noticed.

“I saw the work you did last week,” He said. “Frankly, I’m a little disappointed. I feel like you could do better. You have done better, in fact. Is everything ok?”

No. “Yes.”

“I’m a patient man, you know. I’m not here to come down hard on you. Just pick it up a notch.”

“Sure thing,” he said. “I’ll try harder.”

“I know you will,” He said. And then He was gone for the day.

The cold tremble of embarrassment and anger went down his chest. Why did He not appreciate him more? After all those years working – what had he been working for? Was he not entitled to a little mistake now and then? Even a few mistakes? Who was perfect? What had all this been for?

The burning in his chest spread out, lapping up more acreage in his soul, becoming a forest fire. His hands trembled as they attempted to operate and produce. More mistakes were being made – but what did it matter now? He couldn’t please Him. No matter what happened, it would never be good enough. It never was, and never had been. He couldn’t get it right the first time, and seldom the second. When he did get it right, someone was always there to criticize, and sometimes that person was himself. Sometimes it was Him. Many times it was her. There were never compliments, though. Only negativity.

Where were all the tools he needed? Did he even truly need them, as he could never use them to truly succeed?

Why continue to try?

Quitting time came at last, merciful but unfriendly. He walked to his car at the end of the lot. Of course, he was the last one to reach his vehicle, but the emptiness of the lot vacuumed some pressure away from him. He turned around to observe the departure of his workmates, but somehow they had all cleared out. There were no vehicles anywhere – not in the lot, nor on the road. Was there an accident? Had he entered a dream for a bit, sleeping standing up in front of the curious drivers? Why should he even care where they were now?

He got into his car and realized he was nervous. Something was very wrong with everything. The leather interior looked a bit dull in the evening light. There were scratches on the dashboard that he hadn’t seen before. Each one looked fresh, like it had been made that day, but he knew that was impossible. Was he losing his grip on reality? Who would be there for him, to tell him that he had changed? Who would give him back his tools, or his shampoo, or his soap, or her? Would there be volunteers?

He felt himself driving fast. He checked his rearview mirror, but he couldn’t see his place of work anymore. He adjusted the mirror, but the mirror was fine. The thoughts washed over him once again, and this time he could see no buildings as he drove. Reality stretched to the left and to the right into infinity, rushing away from him and towards him at the same time.

If he could not see it, did it matter?

He drove for hours. He drove neither home, nor away from home, but rather follow the road that tugged at him. He could not see the homes, the businesses, the schools, the parks. It must’ve been green grass that he passed, but it seemed like one mass of matter, heavily pixilated. He was surprised to find that he did not yearn for the old days. He yearned for nothing at all, took pleasure in nothing, and thought of nothing. There was no wind, no grass, no trees, no animals – simply a horizon.

Somewhere along the line, though, he found his way home. It didn’t look like home, though. All the decorations were missing. There were no shutters, no welcome mat, no chairs on the porch. He wasn’t even for sure that he could see windows. It did not matter, of course, for he had no need of looking out of them. He stepped out of his car and shut the door, then took a few steps toward his suddenly blank home. It now seemed to him that the home look like a toddler’s drawing, with little feature, except the door and the shape of the roof. He felt for his keys, but they weren’t there anymore. He turned back to see if they were in his car, but to his great surprise his car was not there anymore, either.

A resigned sigh came out of him, and he turned back to the house. He shuffled his feet up the sidewalk, or what he thought was the sidewalk, and opened the door. At this point he almost expected it. There were no walls, no doors, no fixtures. All of their pictures were gone. He thought he saw her walking away somewhere, but he couldn’t be sure. Space seemed fuzzy at this point, and he wasn’t sure where the boundaries of the house ended or began. He thought he could remember them, but as he tried, he found that the memories stood at the fringe of his consciousness, a hazy outline.

He reached out to grasp at something, and he grabbed nothing and everything. Colors fluctuated and swirled in front of him. Atoms formed and disintegrated in his hand. Humanity orbited around him, saying much and nothing. Memories formed solid but indescribable shapes in front of his eyes, then faded away. Who was she? Who was He? Who were they? Why did they forsake him? Was this it?

Wait.

He backed out the door, and turned around. A white color stretched out before him into the vast infinity. He looked back at where his house was, and that, too was gone. There was only he. White, the color of all colors, overtook him. The world had become a true blank slate, one that seemed to never have been used. He spun around multiple times to make sure, but he indeed was alone, without any form of anything to accompany him. Seeing this, he felt something he had not felt in a long time. Contentment.

For the next several time periods, he stood in wonder at the world he had created. His was a world of blissful starkness. No heavenly bodies moved, no luminaries, no stars. There was no dust, nor water, nor fire. There was no cold and hot, no shape, and no senses. There was simply the eternal blank slate. His thoughts were clear, his nerves were merely simmering. There was nothing to organize, to look after, to value. He did not care, nor need to care, about anything.

I don’t care about anything.

I don’t care about…

I don’t care.

I don’t.

I.

He looked down at his hands and feet, and his phalanges were webbed together. He couldn’t move them at all. His feet felt as though they were stuck to the surface underneath them. He was laying down, hurtling backward and downward, blasting upward into the white void. The nothingness began to frighten him.

I.

I might.

I might also.

I might also care.

I might also care about…

Wait.

It wasn’t a jarring hit, but a gentle nudge. He felt sudden volume between thumb and webbed fingers, and he was surprised to feel himself able to move his arms. He lifted his arm to see what had implanted itself in his hand.

His shampoo bottle.

The emotion he felt at seeing the shampoo bottle overwhelmed him. Without blinking, he took in the form of it. It was red, with an artistic swoosh over the brand name. He found himself able to push down one end of lid. The other side popped up, and the familiar delightful scent enter his nostrils. He took in the hints of lavender and berry, along with the stronger, muskier odors that they market to men. He imagine himself applying it to his dry scalp, feeling the molecules interact with his head. He imagined the liquid penetrating his hair follicles, sizzling through each individual strand of brown hair and reinforcing it. He felt the slight slipperiness of the plastic bottle contrasted with the rough surface of the white label. How did they even do this? he wondered. How did someone mix just the right ingredients to create a substance to put on your hair to make it better, stronger? Who made the shape of the bottle, or who invented the way it would be marketed? Who wrote the label? Who came up with the name of the shampoo? Who invented those handy lids? The questions didn’t have answers, but he was just happy to be able to consider them again. He was happy to care about the shampoo bottle again.

He felt the bump on his right hand, and he knew it was her. He looked up, and he saw her smiling at him. Had she been smiling the whole time, even when her back was turned?

“Hi, Grayson,” she said.

“Hi, Katelyn.”

“How was your day?”

Good. “It was good. How was yours?”

“It was rough. I left my wallet at work and had to double back and get it. That’s why I’m late.” She smiled wearily. “My wallet! My whole life is in there, practically. How could I forget my wallet?”

“I guess sometimes you never know a good thing until it’s gone,” he said.

She cocked her head at him. She didn’t understand, and didn’t need to. “Yeah,” she said, “I guess so.”

Sometimes if I know somebody is down on their luck and I can help I try to. One time a neighbor with an old Buick from the 1960s came by to ask if I knew why the Buick wasn’t running right. His face was all scratched up pretty bad. I jokingly asked if he had tried to rescue a cat out of a tree without gloves and without knowing the cat better. He said no it wasn’t a cat that did it but his wife. He explained that she had Alzheimers and he found her trying to grind up her wedding ring in the garbage disposal. When he tried to stop her she flipped out and attacked him not knowing in the moment who he was despite 60 years of marriage. I said let’s go have a look at that Buick.

We walked down the street to his house and he opened the garage. I smelled gas right away. I thought maybe he had flooded it but he said no it wouldn’t crank over. I took the battery back to my shop and charged it overnight until it was good. I returned to his garage and put the battery in and the car cranked and started but ran really rough. Under the hood I saw the carburetor casting was cracked and leaking thus the gas smell. I had never seen that before. He didn’t have money for a new carb. and I worried he’d light the garage on fire and burn down the house so I asked if I could take the car back to my shop for a few days to diagnose it and he said sure. The more I looked the more problems I found. He was trying to get the car ready to sell. I started with a long overdue tune up with plugs, points, condenser, rotor, cap, and new plug wires. It needed a new air filter so I got one—and a fuel filter. He came by daily to check on my progress when he took his mental health walks to get some breathing room and a few moments away from his ailing wife. He was super stressed. I kept him posted as to what I had done and he kept saying the plan was to sell it not restore it and he didn’t want to spend a lot on it. I got that but you can’t sell a car leaking gas.

The Buick started and ran well after the tune up parts, with the timing and dwell set right, but the carb leak was a problem. I told him he really needed a new carb. and he said he couldn’t afford one. I suggested a carb rebuild kit for $25 and he liked that. I knew it wouldn’t fix the leak but it needed a rebuild anyway and that gave me an excuse to remove the carb. which I did. While the carb was out I cleaned it up and put in all the rebuild parts. I also cleaned up the crack area and JB welded it, leaving it to dry 24 hours before I put it back on. The Buick was resurrected, didn’t leak, and ran like new. It had taken a week or so at 2–3 hours a day. I cautioned him that I didn’t know how long the crack repair would hold so he should keep an eye on it and shut off the engine if it ever smelled like gas. I had done a similar repair on a motorcycle crankcase that had lasted over 15 years so I was pretty confident the carb leak was fixed. He asked what he owed me and I told him I had spent $45 on the tune up parts and that would be fine if he could afford it. He drove the car home and said it ran like the day he bought it new in the 1960s when he returned to pay me the $45. I had spent more than that on the parts and many hours of labor but he had helped me out in the past many times as well as other neighbors so it was my contribution to a longtime neighborhood hero.

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Well in terms of being the world manufacturer yes. In terms of being the country that can deliver a devastating blow to the USA economy and ultimately Uncle Sam’s ability to continue to use the budget for war yes.

The United States ever went to war with China they’d be in for a surprise. Apparently they’re foolish military and blind loyalists want to believe. That spending most of the countries Budget on outdated weapons. Makes them a better and more powerful military. Then a country that doesn’t spend as much and has Superior technology.

Maybe they don’t have as many tanks or jets or something else as the USA does. But they’re Superior technology will more than make up for that. One of the reasons why the United States military is such poor quality. Typical for them to underestimate their opponent and have delusions of being invincible.

China’s New Shenyang J-50 Stealth Fighter Challenges U.S. Air Supremacy!

If you can see it written on the menu in Mandarin then it’s not a secret. Can’t read Mandarin? Cool. Got a cellphone with basic Google translate? Open the camera translate function and hold the phone over the Mandarin script. Instantly you will see an English translation. And the pinyin is available so you can say it in Chinese to your waiter.

Don’t want to order it if you don’t know what it is? Cool. Got a cellphone? Do the above steps and now take the Chinese name for it and open your search engine. Search the internet. It will give you a description, ingredients, recipes, pictures, etc. If it sounds good, order it.

Afraid to try to pronounce it in Chinese to your waiter? Cool. Got a finger? Point at the menu where the item is listed when he asks for your order.

I had the reverse problem the other day. I went to a new Chinese restaurant and saw “shrimp toast” on the appetizers section and said “what the heck?” And since I am of the mind that you should try anything at least once, I ordered it.

And I took a bite and was immediately in Malaysia and Singapore again eating radish cake! But I couldn’t remember the name for it and the restaurant owners didn’t speak much English and I don’t speak much Csntonese. So, I took my cellphone and I asked my friends in the Quora ASEAN WhatsApp group and found out it’s loh pak koe (Cantonese) and also known as chai tow kueh (Hokkien). So now I know what it’s actually called and where to get more of them in my tiny Southern US town. I went back later that week and ordered another one and she brought me a bag stuffed FULL of them! Knowledge is power! 🤭🤣😂

This concludes my TEDtalk for how to order a not-secret Mandarin item from a menu. Thanks for coming.

Sir Whiskerton and the Mystery of the Teleporting Teapot: A Tale of Time-Traveling Tea, Causality Conundrums, and a Very Confused Pig

Ah, dear reader, prepare yourself for a tale so steeped in absurdity, it could only be brewed in the mad teapot of Sir Whiskerton’s farm. Today’s story involves a missing teapot, a turtle with a temporal agenda, and a genie who insists tea is “a state of mind.” So, grab your favorite cup (preferably one that stays put), and let us dive into Sir Whiskerton and the Mystery of the Teleporting Teapot: A Tale of Time-Traveling Tea, Causality Conundrums, and a Very Confused Pig.


A Most Peculiar Disappearance

It all began on a quiet afternoon—or at least, it would have been quiet if Chef Remy LeRaccoon hadn’t been screaming like a tea kettle with stage fright.

  • Chef Remy: “Mon dieu! My quantum teapot—it has vanished! AGAIN!”
  • Sir Whiskerton: “Perhaps it’s just… steeping in another dimension?”
  • Ditto: “Dimension!”

Chef Remy’s prized possession, the Quantum Teapot™, was no ordinary vessel. Crafted from “unobtainium alloy” (which he definitely didn’t steal from a mad scientist’s garage sale), it could, in theory, brew the perfect cup of tea by borrowing heat from the future.

But lately, it had developed a habit of disappearing at the most inconvenient times.

  • First disappearance: Mid-brew, right before Doris’s “High Tea & Gossip Hour.”
  • Second disappearance: While Ferdinand attempted to sing an opera about chamomile.
  • Third disappearance: Inside Porkchop’s snack pile, which the pig swore he didn’t eat.

Sir Whiskerton, ever the detective, narrowed his eyes. “This calls for investigation. And possibly a backup teapot.”


The Suspects (and Their Alibis)

Suspect 1: Zephyr the Genie

Found floating near the teapot’s last known location, swirling a cup of “ethereal oolong.”

  • Sir Whiskerton: “Did you take the teapot?”
  • Zephyr: “Whoa, heavy accusation, my feline friend. Tea isn’t a thing, man—it’s a vibration.”
  • Evidence: His lava lamp was suspiciously warm.
  • Verdict: Innocent (but very unhelpful).

Suspect 2: Porkchop the Pig

Discovered napping atop a pile of snacks, one of which looked like a teapot.

  • Porkchop: “I plead the fifth. Also, is this a teapot or a cookie?”
  • Evidence: Teeth marks on the lid.
  • Verdict: Guilty of snacking, but not theft.

Suspect 3: Slow Bob the Turtle

Absent. Very absent.

  • Sir Whiskerton: “Wait a minute… where is Slow Bob?”
  • Ditto: “Bob!”

The Time-Traveling Tea Party

Following a trail of loose tea leaves (and a faint smell of “temporal bergamot”), Sir Whiskerton tracked Slow Bob to the pond’s edge—where the turtle was hosting a very exclusive gathering.

  • Slow Bob: “Welcome, Sir Whiskerton! Care for a cuppa? This one’s from the Jurassic Period.”
  • Sir Whiskerton: “…That explains the dinosaur-shaped biscuits.”

As it turned out, Slow Bob had been “borrowing” the teapot for his Time-Traveling Tea Parties™, where he invited historical figures for “a spot of causality-defying Earl Grey.”

  • Guest List:
    • Benjamin Franklin (who kept asking if the tea was charged).
    • Marie Antoinette (who demanded cake instead).
    • A very confused Tyrannosaurus rex (who just wanted to know where the milk was).
  • Slow Bob’s Defense: “I steep history! Also, time is relative… unlike my love for a good Darjeeling.”

The Temporal Consequences

Unfortunately, borrowing a quantum teapot without permission had… side effects.

  • The farm’s chickens began laying hard-boiled eggs.
  • Rufus the Dog’s bark now echoed three seconds before he made it.
  • Porkchop remembered eating future snacks, which distressed him deeply.
  • Porkchop: “I vaguely recall devouring a pie that doesn’t exist yet. Am I a time criminal?!”
  • Sir Whiskerton: “Yes. But we’ll focus on the teapot first.”

The Moral of the Story

After negotiations (and confiscating the teapot from a reluctant Slow Bob), order was restored—mostly.

The moral, dear reader, is this: Sharing is caring… unless it’s causality. Some things—like tea, time machines, and Porkchop’s snacks—should come with clear borrowing policies.


A Happy Ending

  • Chef Remy: Installed a quantum lock on the teapot. (It now disappears predictably every Tuesday.)
  • Slow Bob: Limited to non-temporal tea parties. (He invited a rock. It was a stone-cold conversation.)
  • Porkchop: Therapy for “future snack guilt.”
  • Sir Whiskerton: Took a nap. Finally.

The End.


Post-Story Summaries

Moral: Sharing is caring (unless it’s causality).

Best Lines:

  • “I steep history!” – Slow Bob
  • “Tea isn’t a thing, man—it’s a vibration.” – Zephyr
  • “Am I a time criminal?!” – Porkchop

Post-Credit Scene:
The teapot briefly materializes in the middle of Ferdinand’s opera, causing him to quack in reverse.

Key Jokes:

  • Dinosaur biscuits at a tea party.
  • Rufus’s time-displaced bark.
  • Porkchop’s existential snack crisis.

Starring:

  • Sir Whiskerton as the Temporal Detective
  • Slow Bob as the Tea-Time Bandit
  • Chef Remy as the Frantic Frenchman
  • Zephyr as the Groovy Guru of Beverages

P.S.
Remember: If your teapot vanishes, check the space-time continuum first. Then check Porkchop’s snack pile.

Unlike most wars we have unique insight into the actual US reasons for the Viet Nam war due to the fact that various papers were stolen which showed internal US government discussions and memos to the president of the US explicitly stating various goals and operations of the US. These are known as the “Pentagon Papers” and anyone can read them.

The original and main reason for starting the Viet Nam war, was to prevent China from having influence in Asia. The US did not care about Viet Nam or the people there, they simply didn’t want China expanding it’s power, to do this the US wanted to subjugate 3 areas, Korea+Japan, India-Pakistan and Southeast Asia, in order to encircle China.

Later on in a memo during the LBJ reign, the main reason for staying in the war even after it became a political disaster, was that US military didn’t want to suffer a humiliating defeat at the hands of untrained and ill equipped peasants, as it made the conventional US military look weak and incompetent. This resulted in major up-scaling of air bombing of Viet Nam and non-discriminatory death squads and other mass killings, to inflate both enemy combatant body count, and to destroy the country so thoroughly that it would not recover for decades, which could then be blamed on the communist north Vietnamese. The systematic destruction of the Vietnameese country side can be read about in the book “kill everything that moves”, copies can be found online. Warning, it’s not a fun read, and I don’t recommend it if you get easily emotional.

DISASTER: Snow White’s Box Office CRASHES & Rachel Zegler FIGHTS BACK!

I once sat next to a “special needs” kid (alright, he was slightly physically and mentally disadvantaged) on a school trip to a theme park. Poor lad couldn’t handle anything — shrieking, crying, shouting — despite the teacher’s best efforts to keep him smiling and calm.

We were on that big pirate ship ride — you know the one that goes WOOOSH 180° backwards so you’re staring up at the sky wondering what life choices brought you there — and then WOOOSH 180° forwards again. Absolute chaos. 😅

Well, this kid was ruined on that ride. Midway through, he completely lost control of his bladder. His toffee apple was smeared across his face, arms, chest — basically, he looked like he’d lost a food fight he wasn’t even trying to win. His bag of fudge exploded all over the floor at our feet.

When we got off the ride, he absolutely screamed his lungs out — full banshee mode. The teacher, Ms Elaine, looked like she was ready to quit life. She was so drained she couldn’t have given a monkey’s about this monkey and would probably have paid good money to be anywhere but there.

To top it all off, after they cleaned him up and handed him a fresh toffee apple (rookie move), Abdul — that was his name, lovely Iraqi lad, one of many who came to the UK during the first Gulf War — decided to pull a disappearing act.

Mr Dobson had been handed babysitting duty at this point and tried to impress Abdul with one of those claw machines in the arcades. Big mistake. While Mr Dobson was busy trying to grab a stuffed toy, Abdul wandered off.

Come 4:30pm, everyone’s on the coach… except Abdul. 😂

They eventually found him, covered head to toe in mud, toffee apple, and who knows what else, looking like he’d survived a zombie apocalypse. And of course, my mate Racist Stewart (don’t worry, he’s thick, not dangerous) was pointing at him, laughing his head off like it was the best thing he’d seen all year. Honestly, I wouldn’t say the incident changed my life — but judging by the looks on the teachers’ faces, it definitely changed theirs. 😅

Jumbo Prawns and Balsamic-Orange Onions

Jumbo Prawns and Balsamic-Orange Onions

Yield: 4 servings

Ingredients

  • 2 large sweet onions, sliced
  • 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
  • 1 teaspoon kosher salt
  • 1 teaspoon freshly grated orange zest
  • Juice of 1 orange
  • 2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar
  • 1 teaspoon finely chopped fresh rosemary
  • Pinch of crushed red pepper
  • 12 raw shrimp, (6/8 per pound), peeled and deveined
  • 1/4 cup sliced scallion greens

Instructions

  1. Heat oven to 400 degrees F.
  2. Toss onions, oil and salt in a 9 x 13 inch baking pan until coated. Cover with foil. Bake until softened and juicy, about 45 minutes.
  3. Remove foil, stir and continue baking, uncovered, until the onions around the edges of the pan are lightly golden, 25 to 30 minutes.
  4. Stir in orange zest, orange juice, vinegar, rosemary and crushed red pepper. Bake until most of the liquid has evaporated, about 30 minutes.
  5. Stir in shrimp and bake until cooked through, 20 to 25 minutes.
  6. Stir in scallion greens and serve.

Nutrition

Per serving: 314 calories; 10g fat (2g saturated fat, 6g mono unsaturated fat); 259mg cholesterol; 18g carbohydrates; 36g protein; 2g fiber; 550mg sodium; 581mg potassium

Vitamin C (40% daily value), Iron (26% DV), Magnesium (40% DV), Potassium (17% DV)

Exchanges: 2 vegetable, 4 lean meat, 1 1/2 fat

Carbohydrate Servings: 1

Attribution

Recipe and photo used with permission from: National Onion Association

Democracy does not necessarily mean success.

At least not in the context of Western democracy.

In my wife’s hometown, there’s a type of hand-pumped well. To draw water from it, you first have to pour in a certain amount of water; otherwise, no water will come out.

(By the way, how fast has China developed? My wife’s hometown used to be very poor. In the winter of 2005, I visited her family in northern China. There was no running water or heating, so it was incredibly cold. I was particularly enthusiastic about fetching water from the well every day—not just to meet my father-in-law’s household needs but also to help the neighbors. My mother-in-law praised me for being hardworking. In reality, I was just so cold that fetching water was a way to warm myself up…

In 2022, when I took my kids there, they had running water and heating. My kids saw tall buildings, clean parks, and electric vehicle charging stations everywhere, and said, “This isn’t much different from Beijing. How can you say Mom’s hometown was poor?”)

For any country to take off, it first needs to have a bucket of water poured in.

During the economic rise of Taiwan Province in our country, the so-called Ten Major Construction Projects were built under a military government, during the period of White Terror.

When South Korea’s economy began to develop, it was under a military government that arbitrarily suppressed its people.

When Japan sought to “leave Asia and join Europe,” its initial capital came from prostitution in Southeast Asia and the brutal exploitation of female textile workers.

(A Japanese film about how Japan forced its girls into prostitution to buy warships)

(A Japanese film about the brutal exploitation of Japanese female textile workers.)

During China’s economic development, when there was a lack of funds, some unscrupulous “economists” advocated “retracing Japan’s path to rise by sacrificing a generation of young girls to prostitution, which could provide the urgently needed capital for our economic construction.”

The mainstream public opinion at the time was: “Get lost! We are a socialist country, not heartless capitalists! We may sell our blood, but we will never sell our dignity!”

I am proud of my motherland.

Even Britain—was the Industrial Revolution a gentle and refined affair?

Without slaughtering Native American Indians and the blood and tears of countless Black slaves (and Chinese slaves too), could the United States have risen?

If you only look at the presence of ballots, that’s a false democracy.

Every country in Africa has “democratic elections,” but I don’t see Africa taking off.

In some South American countries, drug lords have better equipment than the national army, and during a presidential election, hundreds of candidates get killed—that’s hardly democracy.

Remember the hand-pumped well I mentioned?

Back then, China was a desert with no water source at all. This well was filled by us cutting open our own arteries and pouring in our blood…

Letters to the Octopodes

Written in response to: Center your story around a character who’s afraid of being forgotten.

Oliver James

December 1, 2080My name is Michael Hayward, and I live in the DOM. DOM’s are large, geodesic, glass and steel structures designed to temper and harness the sun’s rays for energy, as well as sustain plant and animal life. I’m told they were originally built for large-scale agriculture in the early days of the Great Desertification. Now, structures like this keep us, humans, safe and alive.I was a linguist before I came here, the name for a person who studies and documents human language. You might assume, Reader, that a collapsing society would have little value for bookish skills like these. In reality, this world values language more than the old one did. I spend my working hours translating scientific documents, and interrogating newcomers to the DOM.As a reward for my service, Council has granted me two hours of stationary access on the first day of every month, with which I am able to record these letters. I am grateful for this gift, paper is a difficult thing to produce, and I do not take their generosity lightly. Reader, please forgive me for the small print.For generations, human scientists have speculated on the existence of other intelligent beings in the universe. What they mean by “intelligence”, though, has remained unclear. The basic idea is this: the more a species resembles humans in its mental and emotional capacities, the more intelligent it is. I think we’ve always hoped to discover another being that understands itself the way we do. So far, we’ve had no luck.

No surprise, then, that recent scientists have to turned to guessing which species will inherit our cognitive mantle. We wonder which of the primordial creatures known to us might develop the most similar combination of self-consciousness, perception, and abstract thought that seems, to us, so unique in the world. In our hearts, we ask whether we really are so unique, and if any of the Earth’s animals might remember us when we are gone.

Our best guess for a successor is, surprisingly, the octopus, of the order Octopoda, an invertebrate sea-creature with eight arm-like tentacles, each with its own nervous system. Humans have feared the octopus for millennia. The Norwegians had their kraken myth, the Greeks invented the Gorgon. Maybe we feared them both for their physical strangeness and for their brilliance. They are remarkably good problem-solvers.

So, it seems the octopus will inherit the Earth. The irony – that the creature most likely to replace us is one of the least similar to us – is not lost on me.

 

Reader, I have to assume our scientists will be correct. It is all I have to work with. Assuming you are a descendant of the octopus species, maybe a historian reading these letters as part of some ancient time capsule, please know that we were fascinated by your ancestors, and that humans would be thrilled to hear that you’ve deciphered our text.

You may recall, somewhere deep in your being, what we did to you, to the oceans and the Earth itself. Remember above when I said we were afraid of you? Fear inspired us to do harmful things. I hope that will make us more sympathetic in your eyes. We grew too powerful and caused terrible damage all over the world, but behind that catastrophe was a group of scared animals, trying to ensure their safety.

Humans have made many mistakes in our time here. If I can leave you with any wisdom at all, it would be this: do not let your fear control you.

 

 

January 1, 2081

 

Today is the first day of 2081, a holiday known to us as New Year’s Day. Growing up, New Year’s meant snow on the ground, ice castles and hot chocolate and fireworks and skating. Fireworks are illegal now, they could damage the DOM. Snow is a distant memory.

We get by, though. New Year’s is my favourite day. Tonight, I’ll sit outside the pod with my neighbours and watch virtual fireworks beamed straight into my OcuLink implant. Far from the real thing (they never could get the scents right), but close enough to impart a little bit of wonder. The other old timers and I will remember our time as children, the feeling of cold air brightening our crimson cheeks, the smell of burning carbon. We’ll smile together.

The DOM’s resident children will swim in the creek and climb the few non-fruit bearing trees available, despite a long-standing ban on tree climbing. The council deemed it too risky an activity, trees being a precious commodity here, but the elders choose to overlook it on New Year’s. The kids deserve to cut loose once in a while.

I sired many of the children, bred as they were in the Council’s population maintenance program. Council pairs up fertile residents on a rotating basis, counting procreation among our civic duties. I often feel a pang of sadness upon spotting one of mine, since children are raised and educated collectively by the Council itself. Even though I interact with them, I have no role in their upbringing beyond serving as a sort of passive supervisor. I find it hard not to recall the past, the family I grew up with and the way parents, at that time, could really know their children.

I remind myself, at these times, that I have little to complain about. Life in the DOM provides me with more than enough food, friends, and reading material. Use of the OcuLink is a delicacy, but I do enjoy it once in a while. They were once mandatory hardware, but we lost the ability to install them long ago, making it, and me, a lucky relic.

Now, in my sixty-fifth year, and seeing as I have no real descendants, I’ve decided to write to you. I feel a bit silly, writing these letters to some unknown reader, in a language probably long-dead. A younger me would have called this trite behaviour. In my old age, though, I feel a need to leave something of me behind. To give something of myself to the world.

I wonder whether you, Reader, will count the years? Especially since you are, most likely, aquatic or amphibian. Certainly you will have your own rituals, and ways of tuning yourselves to the seasons, however you experience them. I hope you get to enjoy something like New Year’s, too.

Reader, I hope these words reach you, somehow. I hope you recognize yourself in them, and that they guide you, in some small way, towards a better world than the one we created.

 

 

February 1, 2081

 

I’ve decided that February 2081 will be last month in the DOM. Life is good here, or at least tolerable compared to life outside, but memories of my home have dogged me since I penned the last letter. I have my health, but I am aging, and if I wait any longer I fear I’ll be too infirm to travel.

Vestiges of human life remain outside, though modern communities are a far cry from the great cities of the past. Life inside a DOM is comfortable, if predictable, and life outside is short. Since I expect my remaining time to be short anyway, I think the time has come to once again make contact with the world.

I grew up in a small, wooden house, adjacent to a deep ravine. The city government maintained a system of stairways and trails for residents to walk in the ravine, cutting through dense forest on either side of the water. They would search the forest for birds, for no reason other than to see them, and to watch them maintain life. Humans love to observe the behaviour of other creatures. Of course, humans also privilege themselves over other creatures. We enjoy their existence as long as it does not obstruct our immediate goals and desires. I really should say that we used to act this way, before industrial food production systems collapsed and we were forced to reconsider the structure of our lives.

The English language includes three possible plural forms for the word octopus: octopuses, an anglicization of the Greek root, octopodes, the Greek plural form, and octopi, a mistake, based on typical Latin pluralization. As a linguist, I cannot help but find this funny. We believed we could control the world, the very systems we, and you, depend on, and we named and categorized other creatures as though your existence depended on us instead. We could not even decide on your name.

Your species, Reader, will probably maintain collective memory of a time when the ocean rapidly warmed and became littered with foreign objects. Life became considerably harder for you, and you had to adapt to survive. Our species carries memories like these with us, embedded in our instinctual behaviour and our emotions, and I am sure you will remember, too. If you want to understand why humans acted the way they did – why we put you in such danger – I recommend you read two books. They are Homer’s epic poems, The Iliad and The Odyssey. They are indisputably important artefacts of human culture, though there may be even greater works with which I am unfamiliar. They are ancient, but I suspect you could find just about every human motivation explained and demonstrated in those pages.

The hero of The Odyssey, Odysseus, goes off to war in a distant land, and then returns to his home. On the way, he and his friends are faced with many trials and dangers, and must use their intelligence to survive. In a small way, I am also going home.

I write to you with the assumption that you are, in a sense, replacing humans. We no longer exist in this scenario, and you have created new civilizations and new systems that allow you to thrive and survive in a hostile world. I hope this is not the case, though.

I would like to think that, perhaps, humanity will find a way to sustain itself in this desolate environment. Maybe we will even find a way to restore what we have ruined. I hope that you, dear Reader, might exist with us side-by-side, that we might create a world worth living in. I hope that you will share your great works with us. Maybe we will read The Odyssey together.

Pasta alla carbonara is incredibly flavourful if you follow the traditional recipe and if you use quality ingredients. The dominating flavours are egg (yolks), guanciale and pepper.

So, if your carbonara is not flavourful enough you must make a mistake. Here are some common mistakes which make your carbonara bland:

  • Do you put cream in your carbonara? Adding cream dilutes the flavour and makes it taste bland.
  • Do you put too much cheese in your carbonara? Or parmesan cheese? First, you take pecorino romana. Or half of pecorino and half of parmigiano reggiano (I prefer 100% pecorino). Second, 50g is the right amount for 4 servings. Americans tend to use too much cheese – which dilutes the delicate flavour of egg and guanciale. Carbonara is not mac’n’cheese.
  • Do you use enough egg yolks? You get the best flavour if you use just the yolks and 1.5 to 2 egg yolks per serving. You can use the whites for other things (pisco sour is a good idea). Other recipes call for 3 whole eggs + 1 extra yolk for 4 servings. The more yolk, the better.
  • Do you use guanciale or just bacon? Guanciale is from the cheek and has more fat than most bacons which are from the belly. And the fat (or lard) is decisive for the flavour.
  • Do you sear the guanciale on medium heat until translucent and golden-brown? High heat kills the flavour. The heat must be low enough to melt some of the lard – which gives flavour to the sauce. And if the guanciale turns black it gets bitter and loses flavour. And of course, you do not add any cooking fat or oil – which would dilute the flavour.
  • Then, do you cook the pasta al dente? This is extremely important, otherwise they become soggy.
  • Do you put the cooked pasta in the pan and stir thoroughly, so they are completely covered with lard?
  • Do you add the egg yolk – cheese mixture when the pasta have cooled down a bit? If the pasta are too hot you get scrambled eggs and the flavour is gone. The safest way to do it is to pour the pasta with the lard and guanciale in another bowl and then add the egg-cheese mixture.
  • Do you add a ladle of cooking water and stir well? The starch and the salt in the cooking water give texture and flavour.
  • And do you add a generous amount of fresh-grated black pepper?
  • And finally: Do not add any other stuff (like peas, mushrooms, garlic, herbs, chili or whatever) – it would be diluting and distracting.

Follow my instructions and you will get pasta alla carbonara to die for.

If life gives you endless vegetables, make soup. Lots and lots of soup.

When I lived in Hattiesburg, Mississippi, I found (discovered) that my cats had disappeared. Oh, for certain, when a cat wants to hide, there is no way that you are gonna find it.

But eventually, I discovered what they were doing.

The cats had torn into the fabric of my sofa, and chairs in the living room, in effect, making little doors for themselves, and then they would hide inside the furniture.

Which from their point of view was awfully cool. But, from my point of view was a real pain in the ass. In effect, they completely destroyed the furniture, as the holes kept on getting larger and larger.

Eventually, reducing the once nice, and well tending furnishings into draped over wood frames. And I had to toss them all away.

Now, of course, I put them all in storage, where they entered “furniture purgatory” which ended mercifully when we emptied out the storage locker ten or so years later.

And that is my story about cats, furniture and the NEED TO HIDE.

Keep smiling you all.

Today…

Keep Pushing

MIDDLE SCHOOL: I got placed in Special Education, and they nicknamed it SPED. They prescribed me Adderall.

HIGH SCHOOL: My advisor said I wasn’t “college material.” The basketball team even hosted “Dumb Offs,” where another kid and I answered questions, and the loser got a plunger to the face. My GPA was 2.7. I wondered what the point of trying was when I’d been told my whole life that I wasn’t good enough.

COLLEGE: I got accepted to Slippery Rock University just because of track and field. I realized everything I had been told was nonsense. My GPA was 3.2, I made the Dean’s List, and I ranked 16th in the nation for the Division II Decathlon.

Now at 29 years old, I got accepted into Duquesne University’s Clinical Mental Health Counseling Program with a partial academic scholarship.

So why am I sharing this? Because there are millions of you who get put in a box before you even get the chance to show what you can do. You’ve got this. Keep pushing through. It gets better!

I am in HK at the moment waiting for my flight to Guangzhou in the night

A Fellow passenger of mine just informed me that his warehouse in Maduraivoyal just placed an order for 25 Crates of Glassware from Gulin China for ₹22.70 Lakh which will be shipped onwards to USA with an assured buyer who is willing to pay ₹ 27.50 lakh

That’s ₹5 Lakh just to store crates of glass in a warehouse for 3 weeks and ship it onwards from Chennai

The American importer is even willing to pay the shipping costs and insurance costs

The logic is he would rather pay an extra ₹8 Lakh or 35% extra including trans shipment costs, insurance, shipping and 10% baseline tariffs than pay ₹ 33 Lakh Tariffs

He is likely to sell the goods for ₹50Lakh and clear ₹15 Lakh ($ 17,500) profit for this batch

A Huge majority of people in the fair will offer TRANS SHIPMENT SERVICES for Chinese Goods

Especially stuff which don’t need Copyright clearances

There are many warehouses in Mexico, Vietnam, Bangladesh, Egypt that are Chinese owned which offer trans shipment

You sell your cargo to the Warehouse owner / Importer in Egypt and they will re sell the same cargo to your original client in USA

The importer pays around 30% extra versus 160% extra


The Beauty of free trade and the solutions is mind blowing

PHP has the delightful habit of telling you “Error Unknown on line 0”…makes you wonder why it even bothered.

CoffeeScript has an even better one: “Parse error on line NaN” (“NaN” being “not a number”).

This, of course, is a classic:

None of the three options ever seeming to do anything useful.

The BIOS error: “KEYBOARD ERROR: Press any key to continue”…that’s also classic.

If you’re running out of disk space on MS Windows and decide to delete “SomeFile” to release some space, you may be lucky enough to get: “Cannot delete SomeFile: There is not enough disk space.” – which is nuts…but then it goes on to offer some genuinely unhelpful advice: “Delete one or more files to free disk space, then try again”. (What’s really happening is that deleting a file really just pushes it into the trash folder – which can cause it to be COPIED there instead of MOVED – so it actually needs space to make space. But the error message is inexcusably stupid.

Pictures

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Many years ago I worked for a bank as a project managed. We had a major telecommunications company who was managing our IT facilities management. We purchased some retail auto loan management software from them and I was the project managed for the installation and testing. This was constantly made difficult by the company’s site managed who thought that I was some sort of interfering busybody for insisting on serious testing of what they considered well-established software.

As project manager, I was blind copied on their internal emails regarding the project. But somewhere along the line they forgot that I was seeing their emails and they were just using “REPLY ALL.” And as I started testing, some of their comments made me suspicious of the software so I increased the rigor of the testing somewhat.

During the testing, we determined that if we input precisely the same data into the three phases of the loan paperwork, the salesman’s payment estimate, the actual contract the buyer signed, and the founding that went for the bank for funding, we got three different amounts. It varied from a few cents difference to hundreds of dollars over the course of the loan.

So I started the process of cancelling the contract for non-performance.

And the site manager and his supervisor started hatching a plot, via email, to have me fired as a bumbling incompetent, unaware that I was receiving every email. I just did my job and kept all the emails. The day before they were to send their legal team to threaten lawsuits against the bank, I printed out all the emails and put them chronologically into a nice professional looking folder.

Then I made an appointment with the CEO of the bank and drove about ten miles from the operations center to the headquarters. I simply laid the folder on the CEO’s desk and requested that he read it carefully without any comments from me. If he had any questions, he could ask them of his VP for Retail Lending. Then I drove back to my office.

As I passed the site manager’s office back at my office, he was putting his personal possessions into a box with a bank guard waiting outside his office. I never saw him again.

A year later the telecommunications company lost its contract with the bank. But for some reason they continued to use us, including myself, as a sales reference. So they lost a number of potential sales as a result.

I still smile to myself when I think about it.

~ Charlie Sue ~

Written in response to: Start or end your story with a character making a cup of tea for themself or someone else.

Jim Parker

~ CHARLIE SUE ~

Charlie Sue was aggravated. Having been ordered to drop everything, put her life on hold and just go, she was heading to see Lilith Primus. A founding member of the Majestic 12 and since Lucy Lange’s disappearance, the new Director. Her supervisor Dale was just the opposite, ecstatic. Are you kidding? Going to Dougway Proving Grounds in Utah. The oldest, most advanced alien research center in the world. In all of his 35 years of back engineering alien tech for the government, he had never even left the facility. He was excited for his prodigy, impressing on her what an honor and opportunity this was. Charlie Sue was whisked away from her Lockheed plant in Marietta Georgia in a private luxury jet. Spent the night at the lavish Hyatt Regency in Salt Lake City, Utah. And now rode through the small town of Dougway in a 1990 Rolls Royce Silver Spur II Stretch Limo. It was a big deal. Still, it stuck in her craw. She didn’t like being summoned.

As they passed the heavily armored gate, she became more impressed as the Limo headed underground. It was common knowledge that the complex was moved fully below the surface after the deadly nerve gas debacle in the 1960’s.

Her chaperone for the trip, a quietly intense Air Force Colonel that she guessed was in his 50’s, took her to an enormous dining hall for lunch. While he avoided her gaze, they ate silently. He had not spoken 10 words to her during the trip and ignored every question she asked him. Curiosity got the best of her and she asked him directly, “Why won’t you talk to me?”

He looked up at her and sighed with irritation. “I am a highly decorated full bird Colonel with two wars under my belt. It’s bad enough that I have to be your babysitter. I have no desire to be your new little friend.”

Charlie Sue’s first reaction was, “Well fuck you too.” He shrugged and went back to eating his cafeteria mystery meat. Then after a moment of consideration she said, “I get it actually, I’m not happy about being here either.”

Soon enough she found herself deliberating in a spacious waiting room with concrete walls. The heated rumblings of an argument reverberated through a heavy hardwood door to the inner office. Then there was silence. A few minutes later, two creatures exited in disarray. A Blue Elbrine from the constellation Vulpecula appeared in distress. Well over 6”5’, he had blue skin, long thin fingers and a smooth, shiny skull. Almost unheard-of to see one alone. She was told that Blues always traveled in herds. Helping him was something rarely seen outside of the Bloworld. A female Drachonian. He pushed her away when he noticed Charlie Sue watching them. The She-Drach spied Charlie Sue and her visage instantly became a voluptuous blonde wearing a tight dress, just barely in the realm of being workplace attire. The Blue’s face was flushed red. He was visibly upset and possibly injured. The She-Drach placed a circular patch containing an assortment of computer chips onto the back of his hand and a studly, middle aged businessman appeared. Charlie Sue’s eidetic memory identified him at once. Lexington Singleton, billionaire industrialist and rumored to be the new Director of the Men In Black. They left in a rush and a smokey voice beckoned Charlie Sue to enter.

Across the office stood a tall woman wearing a form fitting Houndstooth dress to the ankles. At about 5”11’, 4 inch black heels put her well over 6 feet. Bright white hair halfway down her back was trimmed straight across. Her back to the door, she was fiddling with a bangled lampshade atop a bygone Victorian lamp.

The office would have been spacious if not cluttered with classy art and antiques, juxtaposed with oodles of brick-a-brack. Curtesy of a minor in art history, Charlie Sue was floored by several pieces of particular interest. Poppy Flowers by Van Gough, Harlequin’s Head by Picasso, Rembrandt’s The Storm on the Sea of Galilee and Dutch Doll of Finedon. All priceless paintings by the masters…and missing for years. A sculpture, The Golden Calf of Gozo, thought to be lost since the middle ages. The Statue of Marduk, supposedly destroyed in 484 BC by the ruler Xerxes. A hanging Daisho of a katana and wakizashi that looked suspiciously like coveted Muramasa blades from the 16th century. From working with Grey Aliens and their technology she didn’t think she could be surprised anymore. But this room was almost surreal to Charlie Sue’s grounded sensibilities.

The striking desk in the center was also impressive. A Parnian Executive model, they were rumored to be over $200,000. In contrast, the desk top contained only four items. A functional banker’s lamp, laptop, manilla folder, and a nameplate that read Lillith Primus. In spite of her authority and name recognition in the industry, Charlie Sue researched the hell out of Lillith Primus and came up with almost nothing. No bio, no social media exposure, no documentation. The last name was the Latin word for first; that was it. “Miss Primus I presume.”

The woman said, “Call me Lillith,” and turned to face her.

Charlie Sue was struck by her beauty. Emerald green eyes that were ever so slanted. Flawless caramel skin. Full lips and a sharp jawline. Her long neck accentuated by a simple black velvet choker. Charlie Sue was not attracted to woman at all but Lillith was super-hot.

Wanting to get on with it, Charlie Sue shifted with annoyance, while Lillith looked her up and down saying nothing. Finally Lillith opened the folder and said, “So. Charlotte Suzanne Swenson.”

The long trip gave her reply some edge. “My friends call me Charlie Sue, we’ll have to see if you qualify.”

Ignoring the remark Lillith continued talking, as if to herself. “You have a photographic memory.”

“It’s actually an eidetic memory, but that’s a common mistake.”

Lillith glanced up but kept going. “Okay, 5’ tall. 103 pounds. Your blonde hair is definitely long enough to be pigtailed. And your just pretty enough to be ingenueishly vulnerable. I think you’ll do.”

“I’ll do for what exactly?”

Lillith scrutinized her and snapped, “Stop interrupting me.” Charlie Sue sighed heavily, her patience was wearing thin. “You’re a high level gamer and an electrical engineer. A rare combination for a woman in her twenties.”

Charlie Sue was officially bored with it all of it. “Hey, stop for a minute. I saw Lex Singleton barely walk out of here. What did you do to him?”

“You’re awfully fast and loose with your superiors Charlie Sue. This can be easy or this can be hard.”

Defiantly, Charlie Sue demanded, “What in the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Lillith smiled for the first time. “Good, I prefer hard.” She pressed her neck and said, “Gerard, here! Now!” Lillith laid down the folder, made a fist with her right hand and slowly began to twist it. Charlie Sue clutched her chest with alarm. A painful knot seemed to be forming behind her sternum. It grew quickly and the pain spread out, enveloping her entire body. She dropped to her knees, gasping and grunting. As the agony consumed every cell of her being, she curled up into a ball on the floor expecting to die. Lillith came around the desk and prodded Charlie Sue’s shoulder with her pointed toe Jimmy Choos. “You’re going under cover for the Majestic 12. You’re going to work directly for me.”

Lillith opened her fist and Charlie Sue’s body released with a loud, slow groan. As she regained her senses, she wiped the spittle and snot smeared on her cheek and tried in vain to halt the release of her urine and feces. “Look at me Charlie Sue.” With great difficulty she looked up at Lillith and felt an emotion foreign to her. Fear. Lillith smiled. “I think we understand each other now, don’t we? DON’T WE YOUNG LADY?” Charlie Sue could barely nod then put her head back down.

The door opened and a frail looking elderly gentleman with gray hair, entered wearing a tuxedo. “Ah Gerard, Charlie Sue and I have been chatting. Please help her get cleaned up and provide fresh clothes. We have much to do in preparation for her new life.”

Gerard took Charlie Sue by the ankles and struggled awkwardly as he dragged her from the office, leaving a puddle of pee and a trail of waste on the hardwood floor. Lillith called after him, “Send the janitor Gerard. I don’t want this white oak floor to stain.

“Yes Mum,” came the reply.

**********

Feeling warm and safe Charlie Sue came around, but kept her eyes closed and shook out the cobwebs in her mind. The excruciatingly painful episode with Lillith seemed like a dream now. Feeling hands on her, she sat up startled and sent soapy water over the edge of an old style freestanding claw foot tub. Gerard was cleaning her with a washcloth, his voice was soothing. “Relax Miss, you’re fine. Are you thirsty?”

“Yes, please. My mouth is so dry.”

“Water perhaps?”

Charlie Sue nodded. Gerard walked to a small refrigerator next to a high end vessel sink made of marble. In fact, the entire oversized bathroom was marble. Floors, walls, vanity, even the toilet. He returned with a glass and Rokko No Mizu. The Kobe beef of bottled water. Charlie Sue immediately recognized the cartoon tiger on the label. She took a long drink and handed the unusual whiskey glass back. “This is hand-blown Boshi, isn’t it?” Gerard nodded, looking impressed. “The water, this bathroom, the rare art work in her office. Lillith Primus is what my Daddy would have called a rich bitch.”

Gerard replied, “Yes Miss, you’re quite cultured I take it?”

“No Mr. Butler. I have an eidetic memory, so I remember everything I’ve seen or heard.”

“A useful talent I would wager. Call me Gerard, please.”

“Why are you being so nice to me Gerard?”

“You are a good person. I can tell if people are good or bad, it’s a gift. I like you and we will be spending much time together.”

“Oh Lord, you’re not some kind of pervert are you?”

“No Miss, I’m here to help you. If you need anything, just ask.”

Without hesitation she looked back and forth then whispered, “Help me get out of here.”

“Sorry Miss, anything but that.”

“Well, then call me Charlie Sue I guess.” She rubbed the residual soreness in her chest. “What did she do to me in there?”

“Let me just say Charlie Sue, that Mum has many exceptional and unusual skills. Some innate, many acquired over her extensive lifetime. But none of them do you want to experience firsthand.”

“That’s odd you say that. I researched Lillith Primus and came up with almost nothing.”

“You were using the wrong name. Any of these would have been more suitable, Ilith, Abitu, Hakash, Hikpodu, Ayalu, Matrota. These are her true names, the ones that matter. Lillith is assumed to be from a Mesopotamian word for Night Demon, but it’s actually a direct translation of the Erran word for eternal.”

“So she’s definitely not American.”

“I realize that was a jest, but Mum has no demarcation in terms of ancestry. She is truly…unique.”

“She has to be from somewhere.”

“No Charlie Sue. Mum is the Alpha, the Genesis.” Charlie Sue looked at him perplexed. “Lillith Primus was the first human ever created.”

“Sorry Gerard. I can tell you’re serious but I’m not buying it. That would make her uh…I can’t even guess how old. Over a hundred thousand years?”

“ You have of course, heard of the great treaty among the ancient gods.” She nodded yes. “The new masters of Earth needed workers. The Errans, you know them?”

“Do you mean the Nordics from the Pleiades constellation?”

“Yes. As per a ratified contract with the treaty committee, the Errans took their own DNA and cells from a primitive indigenous population and created my Mum. It was their initial attempt. She was the first woman and the original human prototype.”

“That would explain the green eyes and white hair but it’s hard to swallow. Easy to confirm, though. If true then everyone on earth would have traces of her DNA.”

“No. I didn’t say she was a successful prototype. The Elders, a committee of four representatives of the senior races…”

“Senior races?”

“The Nephilim, the Mantis, The Greys, and the Annunaki. They had the final say on any actions that were treaty related. The Elders rejected her. Unable to agree on who should try again, all the different races decided to create their own breeds of workers. Hence the diversity we enjoy in the world today. Then Mum’s throat was slit, and they disposed of her.”

“Then why is she still here?”

“Ah!” His finger went up. “The Errans had done too good a job. No one yet realized that Mum could not die. The extraordinarily long life span of Errans combined with the primates ability to heal, merged into a physiology that was unprecedented. To put it simply, she is immortal.”

A skeptical snicker escaped Charlie Sue. “Why do you call her Mum?”

“She’s my mother. Would you like to hear her story? It is as you Americans say, a doozy.”

“Sure. But are you supposed to be telling me all of this?”

“It’s of no consequence. You won’t remember any of it anyway.”

“Wanna bet?”

From the doorway Lilith said, “I’ll take that bet. And trust me, you wouldn’t want to remember it anyway.” As Lilith walked away, her voice wafted. “Tell her all about me, Gerard. Then bring her to the Ice Box.”

“Yes Mum,” he replied. “Charlie Sue, would you care for a cup of tea?”

“Why, yes Gerard. Under the circumstances that would be lovely.”

I was an English teacher in Macau.

I had a lot of students who were casino dealers.

This is a story but not sad.

This gambler came in, bet and lost US $15 million in 6 hours. He marched off.

A day later he comes back and has a bankroll.

He played for 72 hours, without eating or sleeping and went to the bathroom every 3–4 hours.

All the dealers had side bets of how long he would last

At the end of 72 hours, he walked off with US$ 24 million.

I heard the story 3 times from 3 different people.

Trump is unlikely to lower tariffs on Vietnam, because then Vietnam would become a “white glove” for Chinese goods entering the U.S.

So this time, Trump’s indiscriminate high tariffs on the world are meant to block any middlemen.

But I don’t think it’s very meaningful.

There’s an old Chinese saying: “Some people will do business that gets their heads chopped off, but no one will do a deal that loses money.”

If even drugs can make it into the U.S., what about high-quality, low-cost goods?

The U.S. doesn’t have the ability to secure its long border.

In fact, even China’s customs and police, known for their strictness, can’t stop smuggling.

There’s a line from a movie: “If you smuggle pig trotters, we (Chinese coast guard) will chase you symbolically and call it a day—after all, we also want to eat an 8-yuan pig trotter meal. But if you traffic drugs? No matter what advanced vehicles you have, we’ll chase you with planes, from Guangzhou to Wuzhou, from Shenzhen Port to Fangchenggang, all the way to the high seas, and then treat you to some ‘peanuts’ (execution by firing squad).”

(Footage of smuggling boats captured by a police helicopter. These boats are all modified, equipped with 6 or 8 high-horsepower engines, making them extremely fast—too fast for the coast guard to catch up. However, if they dared to smuggle drugs, the helicopter would follow them. But being this blatant 100+ boats , they’re probably smuggling only “pig trotters,” and the coast guard also wants to eat something cheap, like an 8-yuan pig’s feet meal.)

Even the Chinese coast guard can’t stop smuggled pig trotters—they even consider their own 8-yuan pig trotter meals!

(These modified smuggling boats are really fast, so they come with high risks. But because of the profits, they can’t be stopped. Drugs are another matter—caught and you’re executed, and everyone’s against it, so it’s easy to tip off the police. Informants and police get hefty rewards, so the risk of drug trafficking is too high to be worth it.)

Can the U.S. do it? I have my doubts.

And I can say with certainty that if high tariffs continue, the ones smuggling in the end won’t be these poor fishermen, but organized armies or high-ranking government officials!

Given China’s level of centralization, back then there were still armies and senior officials involved in “official smuggling,” and I don’t think the United States would be an exception either.

Moreover, Vietnam’s immediate announcement of reducing tariffs on the U.S. to 0 is a big gamble.

They’re betting that after high tariffs, the U.S. domestic pressure—like inflation—will become unbearable, but Trump, for the sake of his election prospects, can’t lower tariffs on China. So, he might use “Vietnam has already yielded” as an excuse to cut tariffs on Vietnam, say to 10%.

This way, Chinese goods could quietly become “Made in Vietnam,” enter the U.S., and ease American inflation.

That’s my take.

You will definitely be in an elite class. Whether that will mean anything is another matter.

Back in 1980, I wrote an OS from scratch for the Data General Nova4X computer. This was for a commercial application, not a university project. So, as far as I’m concerned, doing it and getting paid for it, rather than getting a silly grade in a Uni, does put me in an elite class. Because how many can claim they did it for business reasons?

Alas, the OS did not go beyond being used for this window company in England. And had I did the same on, say, the PC or some other widely available computer at the time, it may have gain prominence. Especially since my OS did preemptive multitasking, which was ahead of the MacOS and Windows that came out a few years later.

And I was only 18 at the time.

So a kid writing an OS for a business application without any formal training?

But was I seeking to be in an elite group? No. I did not even realise the significance of what I did until years later. It used to be on my CV, but now I leave it off because I already have 20 years on my CV, and if I were to still include it, it would make it 40 years!!!!!

So the long version of my CV goes back to my time at Commodore-Amiga, and the shorter version goes back only 10 years. So much good stuff dropped to the cutting room floor! LOL

Do you really want to be in an elite group? Why? What’s your motivation?

I am currently working on a Machine Learning project, and I suppose its completion will also put me in an “elite class”, but that is not my motivation. Rather, I seek to understand what it will take to bring about AGI, and this ML project is but the merest baby step in that direction. So I have to be humble, recognising I might be going down a blind alley (of course I don’t think I am!). We’ll see.

Seek out excellence for a higher goal, but seek not glorification from others. This is my sage advice to you. Reach that goal, and others will bow down at your feet anyway. But if you seek out the genuflection instead, you will not find it.

Amana Ox Yoke Inn Rhubarb Custard Pie

55e29e07d11c466034fca3d7aeea9d84
55e29e07d11c466034fca3d7aeea9d84

Yield: 1 pie

Ingredients

  • Double crust pastry for 9 inch pie
  • 3/4 tablespoon all-purpose flour
  • 5 1/2 cups chopped rhubarb
  • 2 1/2 cups granulated sugar
  • 4 eggs, lightly beaten
  • 3/4 cup Half-and-Half
  • 1/8 teaspoon salt

Instructions

  1. Make crust for a 2 crust pie.
  2. Put bottom crust in pie pan; sprinkle with flour.
  3. Mix the rhubarb, sugar, beaten eggs, Half-and-Half and salt.
  4. Pour into crust, and put on top crust. Make slits in top of pie.
  5. Bake at 375 degrees F for 1 1/2 hours.

Millionaire John Jacob Astor IV and the Titanic.

When the Titanic sank, it carried millionaire John Jacob Astor IV. The money in his bank account was enough to build 30 Titanics. However, faced with mortal danger, he chose what he deemed morally right and gave up his spot in a lifeboat to save two frightened children.

Millionaire Isidor Straus, co-owner of the largest American chain of department stores, “Macy’s,” who was also on the Titanic, said:

“I will never enter a lifeboat before other men.”

His wife, Ida Straus, also refused to board the lifeboat, giving her spot to her newly appointed maid, Ellen Bird. She decided to spend her last moments of life with her husband.

These wealthy individuals preferred to part with their wealth, and even their lives, rather than compromise their moral principles. Their choice in favor of moral values highlighted the brilliance of human civilization and human nature.

Sir Whiskerton and the Endless Harvest: A Tale of Zany Zephyr, Overgrown Veggies, and a Very Tired Tractor

Ah, dear reader, prepare yourself for a tale of wishes gone awry, vegetables run amok, and a farmyard full of animals who learned the hard way that too much of a good thing is… well, too much. Today’s story is one of magical mishaps, absurd harvesting methods, and a certain feline detective who just wanted a nap. So, grab your gardening gloves (you’ll need them) and a sense of humor (you’ll need that even more), as we dive into Sir Whiskerton and the Endless Harvest: A Tale of Zany Zephyr, Overgrown Veggies, and a Very Tired Tractor.


The Wish Heard ‘Round the Farm

It all began on a perfectly ordinary Tuesday—or at least, as ordinary as Tuesdays get on Sir Whiskerton’s farm. The farmer, ever the dreamer, was staring at his fields with a wistful sigh. “If only I could have an endless harvest,” he mused aloud, twirling a stalk of wheat between his fingers. “No more planting, no more waiting… just bountiful abundance.”

Unbeknownst to him, Zephyr the Genie—resident of a vintage lava lamp and purveyor of groovy magic—was listening. With a swirl of psychedelic smoke, Zephyr materialized, his tinted glasses glinting in the sunlight. “Farmer, my dudes and dudettes,” he intoned, “your wish is my command. Let the harvest… begin.”

He snapped his fingers, and the fields exploded with growth. Carrots burst from the ground like orange rockets. Cornstalks shot up so fast they nearly poked holes in the clouds. And the pumpkins? Let’s just say they achieved “moon-sized” by lunchtime.


The Chaos Unleashed

At first, the animals were thrilled.

  • Porkchop the Pig: “Unlimited snacks? This is the best day of my life!”
  • Doris the Hen: “Think of the omelets! The quiches! The—oh dear, that zucchini just crushed the coop!”
  • Rufus the Dog: “I don’t even like vegetables, but this is awesome!”

But then reality set in. The crops wouldn’t stop growing.

  • Bessie the Tie-Dye Cow: “Groovy, man… but also, help.”
  • Ferdinand the Duck: “I can’t quack under this much pressure!”
  • Throttle the Tractor: “I’m a tractor, not a miracle worker!”

Sir Whiskerton, observing the madness from his sunbeam, sighed. “This,” he declared, “is what happens when you mix magic with agriculture.”


The Ridiculous Harvesting Attempts

With the farm overrun, the animals sprang into action—or at least, they tried.

Phase 1: The Squirrel Squad

Nutters and his gang of squirrels attempted to harvest the corn using acorn-powered slingshots.

  • Nutters: “We’ll knock ‘em down, one ear at a time!”
  • Result: The corn retaliated by growing taller, now with a squirrel dangling from every stalk.

Phase 2: The Duck Brigade

Ferdinand rallied the ducks to “quack the crops into submission.”

  • Ferdinand: “My mighty quacks will shake the veggies loose!”
  • Result: The ducks got tangled in pumpkin vines, resulting in the world’s first “quacking piñatas.”

Phase 3: The Pig Propulsion System

Porkchop had the brilliant idea to roll downhill into the fields, flattening the crops.

  • Porkchop: “I’m not lazy, I’m efficient.”
  • Result: He bounced off a giant turnip and landed in the pond.

Phase 4: The Tractor’s Last Stand

Throttle, fueled by desperation (and premium diesel), attempted to plow through the fields at top speed.

  • Throttle: “I AM SPEED!”
  • Result: He got stuck in a tangle of tomato vines, muttering, “I regret everything.”

Sir Whiskerton’s Ingenious Solution

With the farm in shambles and the animals exhausted, Sir Whiskerton knew it was time for diplomacy. He marched up to Zephyr’s lava lamp and knocked politely.

  • Sir Whiskerton: “Zephyr, old chap, we need to talk.”
  • Zephyr: “Whoa, heavy vibes, my feline friend. What’s the deal?”

Sir Whiskerton gestured to the apocalyptic vegetable wasteland. “The deal is that we’re drowning in squash.”

Zephyr stroked his chin. “Hmm. Perhaps I overshot the ‘endless’ part.”

With a snap of his fingers, the crops stopped growing—but the mess remained.

  • Doris: “Now what?!”
  • Sir Whiskerton: “Now, we rest.”

The Moral of the Story

As the animals collapsed into a heap of hay (conveniently cleared by a very smug goat), they reflected on the day’s events.

The moral, dear reader, is this: Hard work is important, but so is rest and balance. Too much of anything—even a good thing—can lead to chaos. And sometimes, the best solution is to stop, take a breath, and ask for help before you’re buried under a mountain of mutant carrots.


A Happy Ending

With the crisis averted, the farmer learned his lesson (sort of).

  • Farmer: “Next time, I’ll wish for… moderate abundance?”
  • Sir Whiskerton: “Or perhaps no wishes at all.”

The animals, though exhausted, celebrated with a feast of the smallest vegetables they could find.

And as for Sir Whiskerton? He returned to his sunbeam, where he belonged, dreaming of a world where magic came with instruction manuals.

The End.


Post-Story Summaries

Moral: Hard work is important, but so is rest and balance.

Best Lines:

  • “Unlimited snacks? This is the best day of my life!” – Porkchop
  • “I’m a tractor, not a miracle worker!” – Throttle
  • “We’re drowning in squash.” – Sir Whiskerton

Post-Credit Scene:
Zephyr, back in his lava lamp, mutters, “Note to self: less groovy, more specificity.”

Key Jokes:

  • Squirrels as cornstalk decorations.
  • Ducks as quacking piñatas.
  • Porkchop’s failed “Pig Propulsion System.”

Starring:

  • Sir Whiskerton as the Overworked Genius
  • Zephyr as the Well-Meaning but Chaotic Genie
  • Porkchop as the Snack-Obsessed Pig
  • Throttle as the Exhausted Tractor

P.S.
Remember, dear reader: if life gives you endless vegetables, make soup. Lots and lots of soup.

Retired NBA star David West once talked about Chinese education during the live broadcast.

He said: China teaches its children and young people a lesson called “A Hundred Years of Shame”.

The Chinese talk about this history and teach it.

The “A Hundred Years of Shame” is a history that the Chinese believe they should feel humiliated.

Because China has been benefiting other countries over the past 100 years, and the Chinese themselves have not benefited from anything.

Underdevelopedness leads to humiliation.

The Chinese tell their children that these things must never happen again.

China can no longer accept other countries doing the same to China at any time.

And China cannot allow its own country to be enslaved at any time, or allow other countries to harm the interests of its own citizens.

This is the reason why China has risen for nearly 70 years, and this is why China has risen peacefully, unscathed, and culture.

No country in the history of the world has been as united as China.

David West is very familiar with China, and what he says is true.

At least I have been telling my children the history of China, what China was like in the past, why it suffered a century of humiliation, what China is like now, and what China will be like in the future.

David West also talked about education in the United States at the end.

On the contrary, he said, the U.S. has been teaching children about hegemony and racism.


A Hundred Years of Shame

Opium War

Wife Ignored Daughter On Her B-DAY So She Could Cheat, Now Husband Is Sending Her A** To The Streets

I can point out a few things from my favorite aviation movie that just stood out as jarring (even though the movie never claimed to be realistic):

In (the original) Top Gun, the boys were professionally introduced to Charlie as a civilian DoD expert in airplanes with a PhD in… astrophysics?

Not saying that it’s impossible, but astrophysicists study things that are totally not related to airplane or engineering, let alone airplane engineering. Astrophysics deal with planets, stars, black holes, and stuff in outer space.

You CAN have a degree in astrophysics and then work as an analyst in DoD (after all, if you can handle the math over there, you should be fine), but it takes quite some time to learn all that stuff. It’d be a lot more believable if her PhD is in some kind of engineering (aerospace/aeronautical is the best, but mechanical or others should be fine too), but I suppose either the movie makers didn’t know that you can have a PhD in engineering or they didn’t expect the audiences to understand that.

Also (later in that same scene), “4-g inverted dive”? What the hell is that?

Firstly, they were flying straight and level, except that Maverick and Goose were upside down. They weren’t “diving” in any sense. Diving looks like this:

Not sure how you can be “inverted” in that sense either if you’re pointing straight down (or almost straight down), but I can write it off as “the pair of them were upside down, so they’re inverted”.

The other one is the g force. This goes to both the original Top Gun AND the new Top Gun Maverick (where the g force is an important plot point). Those more extreme gs only happens during maneuvers like a pull up. 4 g is about the safe limit for airliners and other large airplanes, but fighters can do a lot more than that easily. But during the dive itself? I doubt you’ll get 4 g.

So when Charlie said that the “MiG-28” had issues during a dive (or something like that) it makes very little sense. Similarly, in the new movie, the hard part was pulling up to avoid the mountain, but once they started climbing, the pilots shouldn’t experience anything more than what they would right after takeoff; they just need to bear it for a few seconds.

Jim LaFleur

Steam curled from the kettle’s spout, a ghostly ribbon dancing in the dim morning light. Orion Carter traced its path with failing eyes, remembering how he once tracked the trajectories of distant comets with that same careful attention. The familiar ritual of making tea had become a treacherous dance, his fingers seeking the counter’s edge, measuring distances by memory rather than sight.The kettle’s whistle pierced the quiet apartment. He reached for it, muscle memory betraying him as his hand missed the handle and brushed against the scalding metal. Pain flared, sharp and immediate. The kettle clattered against the stovetop as he jerked back, a curse escaping through clenched teeth.“Damn it all,” he whispered, cradling his burned hand against his chest. Water sloshed over the counter’s edge, pattering onto the floor like rain. The sound echoed in the stillness, each drop a reminder of his growing helplessness.Through the kitchen window, dawn painted the sky in shades he could barely distinguish. The city’s star zone stretched before him, its buildings designed to welcome darkness rather than fight it. Special shutters and dimmed lights would transform the urban landscape come nightfall, but for Orion, the stars had already begun their slow fade into memory.He fumbled for the faucet, holding his throbbing hand under cool water. The burn pulsed in time with his heartbeat, each throb carrying the weight of Dr. Morrison’s words from yesterday’s consultation: “Experimental procedure… significant risks… potential complete loss of vision… but also a chance…”

 

The morning light strengthened, casting long shadows across his worn astronomy texts. A lifetime of study lined his shelves—star charts, cosmic theories, and observation journals. His own handwriting grew progressively shakier in the most recent entries, until the final page remained blank, a surrender he hadn’t been ready to acknowledge.

 

Orion pressed a damp cloth to his hand, the cool relief momentary. His gaze drifted to the letter from the hospital, still unopened on his kitchen table. The deadline for his decision loomed: take the chance on experimental surgery, or accept the inevitable descent into darkness. The burn on his hand seemed to mock him, a harsh reminder of how quickly remaining senses could betray.

 

He moved to the window, pressing his forehead against the cool glass. Somewhere beyond the morning haze, stars wheeled in their ancient patterns, indifferent to his dilemma. The city had crafted its star zone out of reverence for the cosmos, dimming artificial lights so its residents could witness celestial glory. Yet here he stood, a man who had spent decades unraveling stellar mysteries, now struggling to pour his morning tea.

 

The irony tasted bitter as the cooling drops that had splashed into his empty cup.

 

***

 

The specialist’s office buzzed with fluorescent harshness, each flicker a needle against Orion’s sensitive eyes. Dr. Morrison’s voice floated across the desk, clinical yet kind, as she reviewed his test results. The shapes on the eye chart behind her had become abstract art, a blur of black against white that mocked his former precision.

 

“The degradation is progressing faster than we anticipated,” she said, her words cutting through his thoughts. “Without intervention, you’ll likely lose most functional vision within six months.”

 

Orion’s fingers found the arm of the chair, tracing its worn leather. “And the surgery?” His voice emerged steadier than he felt. “What are the exact odds?”

 

Papers rustled as Dr. Morrison leaned forward. Through the fog of his vision, he could make out her white coat, a ghost against the darker walls. “Sixty percent chance of significant improvement. Twenty percent chance of no change.” She paused, and in that silence, Orion heard what came next. “Twenty percent chance of complete loss.”

 

The numbers danced in his mind like stellar coordinates, cold and precise. He’d spent his career calculating the probability of celestial events—meteor showers, planetary alignments, solar flares. Now his own future had been reduced to clinical percentages.

 

“There’s something else you should know,” Dr. Morrison continued. “The procedure is time-sensitive. The deterioration of your optical nerve means we have a narrow window. Two weeks, at most.”

 

Two weeks. Fourteen days. The same time it took for the moon to wax from new to full, a cycle he’d observed countless times through telescopes of increasing power and precision. Now he could barely make out Earth’s satellite as more than a smudge of light in the evening sky.

 

His burned hand throbbed beneath its bandage, a reminder of yesterday’s mishap. How many more accidents lurked in his future? How many more times would his weakening vision betray him?

 

“I’ve watched stars die,” he said quietly, more to himself than to Dr. Morrison. “Through my telescope, I’ve seen them fade, collapse, transform. But I never imagined…” His voice trailed off as emotion threatened to overwhelm his carefully maintained composure.

 

Dr. Morrison’s chair creaked as she shifted. “The consent forms are here if you’re ready. We can schedule the procedure for next week. But Orion,” her voice softened, “this has to be your decision.”

 

The weight of choice pressed against his chest like gravity. Beyond the office windows, the city prepared for its nightly transformation, light sensors adjusting, special shutters closing, the star zone awakening to its purpose. Soon the urban sky would reveal its celestial treasures to everyone except him.

 

He reached for the forms, his fingers finding the smooth paper. “I’ll need you to indicate where I should sign,” he said, his voice rough with resolution. The pen felt heavy in his grasp, like the first telescope his father had given him, like the weight of all the decisions that had led him to this moment.

 

***

 

The night before surgery arrived with an unexpected silence. No hum of electricity, no distant drone of climate units. The city-wide blackout had plunged everything into a darkness deeper than any planned dimming of the star zone.

 

Orion stood at his window, a half-melted candle throwing wild shadows across his living room. The flame’s dance reminded him of solar prominences he’d once photographed—tendrils of fire reaching into space, defying the void. Now, in this unplanned darkness, the stars emerged with startling clarity, as if bidding him a final farewell.

 

His hands trembled as he opened the window, letting in the autumn air. The scent of rain-washed concrete drifted up from seven stories below, mixing with the earthier smells of the city’s rooftop gardens. A meteor streaked across the sky—or perhaps it was his imagination, his mind filling in details his eyes could no longer trust.

 

“One last show,” he whispered to the cosmos, his breath fogging the glass. The constellations of his namesake, Orion, would be rising soon in the eastern sky. He pressed his forehead against the cool window pane, straining to separate starlight from the afterimages that now haunted his vision.

 

The candle guttered in a draft, nearly extinguishing. Orion turned, heart pounding, and steadied the flame with cupped hands. The thought of total darkness—real darkness, not this temporary blackout—sent a shiver through him that had nothing to do with the cooling night air.

 

His phone lay dark and useless on the coffee table, its battery dead. The hospital would expect him at dawn, whether power was restored or not. Nine hours remained until he would submit himself to the surgeon’s knife, to the possibility of eternal night or renewed sight.

 

The leather armchair accepted his weight with a familiar creak as he settled in for his vigil. He’d kept many night watches in this chair, tracking comets, recording meteor showers, sketching lunar maps. Now he watched the stars with the desperate focus of a man memorizing the face of a loved one before a long journey.

 

“I’m not ready to lose you,” he confessed to the night sky. The words fell into darkness, absorbed by the silence of his apartment. A distant car’s headlights swept across his ceiling, mimicking the movement of celestial bodies. In the street below, voices rose and fell as people gathered to marvel at the unusually clear sky, their excitement carrying up to his window like an echo of his younger self’s enthusiasm.

 

The candle’s flame cast his shadow against the wall—tall, distorted, reaching toward the ceiling like the astronomer he used to be, back straight and eyes sharp. But the shadow wavered, uncertain, just as his future trembled between sight and darkness.

 

Tomorrow would bring either renewal or ending. For now, he kept his vigil, counting familiar stars until they blurred into dreams, the candle burning lower as the night wheeled overhead.

 

***

 

Three months after the surgery, Orion sat in his study, surrounded by cardboard boxes from decades of research. His partially restored vision, though far from perfect, allowed him to distinguish shapes and movement—enough to sort through his past without assistance. The doctors had called it a qualified success. He called it a compromise with fate.

 

Dust motes danced in the afternoon light as he lifted the lid from an old trunk, its brass hinges protesting with age. The scent of preserved paper and leather bindings wafted up, carrying memories of late nights at observatories and eager students clustered around telescope eyepieces.

 

His fingers brushed against something unexpected—cool metal, smooth curves, unfamiliar contours. Frowning, he lifted the object from its nest of old papers. A note fluttered to the floor, the handwriting large enough for him to make out: “For when the stars seem distant. —Elena.”

 

Elena Zhang. His colleague from the Beijing Observatory, brilliant and forward-thinking. She’d passed away five years ago, but he remembered their last conversation about adaptive technology in astronomy. He’d dismissed it then, secure in his perfect vision.

 

The object in his hands was a telescope, but unlike any he’d seen before. Its design was elegant, almost organic, with additional panels and interfaces along its length. His heart began to race as he recognized the manufacturer’s mark—the same company that developed assisted vision devices for deep space imaging.

 

With trembling hands, he carried it to the window. The sun was setting, painting the sky in colors he could now only partially distinguish. He waited, watching the star zone’s automated systems engage, dimming the city lights in their choreographed dance with darkness.

 

The telescope’s power switch illuminated with a soft blue glow. Through the eyepiece, he saw only darkness at first, then—

 

“Oh,” he breathed.

 

The stars exploded into his vision, not as the dim points his damaged eyes now perceived, but as brilliant bursts of color and light. The telescope was translating the stellar radiation into enhanced patterns his compromised vision could process. Tears blurred his eyes as he watched familiar constellations emerge in new forms—Orion’s Belt pulsing with shades of blue and gold, the Pleiades dancing in spirals of purple and white.

 

He found his notebook, began sketching what he saw. His hand moved with certainty now, recording not just positions and magnitudes, but new patterns of light his mind was learning to understand. The universe hadn’t abandoned him; it had simply been waiting to speak a new language.

 

A tap at his door interrupted his observations. “Dr. Carter?” His neighbor’s grandson, Tommy, stood in the doorway. “Mom wanted to know if you’re still doing the star walks this weekend.”

 

Orion looked at the telescope, then at the boy’s expectant face. “Yes,” he said, surprising himself. “But this time, we’re going to see the stars in a whole new way.”

 

He turned back to the window, where the city’s star zone spread out below like a dark canvas waiting to be painted with light. The telescope had been waiting here all along, he realized, while he’d been facing his darkness alone. Elena’s final gift wasn’t just the instrument itself, but the reminder that there were always new ways to view the infinite.

  1. No one gives a fuck what you do. So, make decisions for you.
  2. Hangovers aren’t worth it.
  3. Health is wealth.
  4. Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.
  5. You need to accept reality as it is rather than as you want it to be.
  6. Do the best with what you’ve got where you are.
  7. Comparison will steal your joy.
  8. If you get better one day at a time, you can eventually become the person you want to become.
  9. Sometimes, you need to part ways with people who aren’t good for you.
  10. Travel when you’re young. Don’t put it off until you’re retired; do it when you look and feel the best.
  11. Make time for what you enjoy. It’s the ultimate coping mechanism.
  12. Money isn’t everything, but it certainly helps you live more comfortably.
  13. Porn isn’t worth it. Life is better without watching porn.
  14. Spend time with your parents. They aren’t getting any younger.
  15. Be careful who you choose as your spouse. Choosing the wrong partner is a death sentence.
  16. Find ways to relax. It’s one of the most important things.

Chicken Cacciatore

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764181a62a79637e2d641a83928fc3ba

Yield: 4 to 6 servings

Equipment

  • Pressure Cooker

Ingredients

  • 1 (3 pound) chicken, cut up
  • 3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
  • 1 teaspoon salt
  • 1/8 teaspoon pepper
  • 2 tablespoons vegetable oil or olive oil
  • 1/4 cup diced salt pork
  • 1 1/2 cups sliced onions
  • 2 cloves garlic, minced
  • 2 tablespoons minced parsley
  • 1/2 teaspoon dry oregano or 1 teaspoon chopped fresh oregano
  • 1/2 cup chopped carrots
  • 1/2 cup chopped celery
  • 1 (16 ounce) can Italian tomatoes, chopped
  • Salt and pepper
  • 1/2 cup white wine
  • 1 (6 ounce) can tomato paste

Instructions

  1. Coat chicken in mixture of flour, salt, and pepper; set aside.
  2. Put oil in a 4 or 6 quart Presto pressure cooker. Sauté pork until crisp. Add onions and sauté until light brown; remove and set aside.
  3. Brown chicken a few pieces at a time; set aside.
  4. Pour off excess drippings; stir garlic, parsley and oregano into remaining drippings.
  5. Return chicken and onion to pressure cooker. Add carrots, celery, tomatoes, salt, pepper, and white wine. Close pressure cooker cover securely. Place pressure regulator on vent pipe.
  6. Cook for 8 minutes, at 15 pounds pressure, with regulator rocking slowly.
  7. Cool pressure cooker at once.
  8. Place chicken on warm platter.
  9. Stir tomato paste into sauce in pressure cooker. Simmer until thickened. Pour over chicken.

Chinese peasant here.

If you mean who should take the credit, Mao and Deng would be my answer. And I’d give the credit to the Chinese people. I’d appreciate my grandparents’ generation for build a new China out of the ruins of wars, some of them sacrificed everything to make the country stand. I’d appreciate my parents’ generation for staying optimistic and positive in the era of extreme scarcity. My parents tried their best providing me a happy childhood, a warm family, they spent every cent they earned on me and my education …even when their salary was just 50 – 80 CNY in the 1980s. They and many other Chinese like them were responsible for the rise of China, and they did a great job shouldering their responsibility.

If you mean who should take the blame for allowing China to rise, I don’t understand, how come the rise of 1/5 of humanity a terrible thing to you? The Chinese enslave no one, steal from no one. Don’t you think every hardworking man and woman deserve a chance to make their dreams come true, don’t you hope every hardworking kid to have a brighter future? If you can have your American Dream, European Dream come true, why can’t the Chinese have their Chinese Dream?

Today, the rise of China looks a mistake to you, I bet in a few decades, the rise of Asia, Africa and the entire 3rd world are going to be so unacceptable to people like you, that you will play the same dirty tricks to oppress them, smear them, group your villain friends to destroy their dreams, just like what you are doing to China.

What’s wrong with you people? Do you just hate hardworking people, or people who don’t look and think like you?

Wanna make your country great or great again? Go work harder than the Chinese.

Men Are DONE.

These videos in this flick are just amazing. Sheech!

Curiosity can lead to unexpected rewards

No. I was diagnosed with breast cancer last year, in November. I found the lump in October.

I am 75, with other health issues. I had all the exhausting tests over a month. Then, I had surgery to remove it. One lump only, no lymph node involvement. Pet scan showed no other cancer anywhere in my body. After surgery, I had an appointment with the oncologist. I already have weakness and muscle myopathy. She said, “I think you have enough going on. No chemo, but some radiotherapy.” No thanks. My husband died from bowel cancer. I saw and treated his burns. Not for me. I’m in God’s hands now. He knows when my time is up.I have help at home, a cleaner once a week. Meals delivered. I hardly go out of the house, but I am as happy as I can be. I’m not worried about the cancer returning. It probably will eventually. I hope this answer helps someone. Diane.

TOP “Does He Look Like a Bit*h?” Reactions! Pulp Fiction (1994) Movie Reaction *First Time Watching*

A while back, when everyone was going crazy buying Tesla stock, Warren Buffet, of Berkshire, saw problems and eschewed the stock. Instead, he studied the fundamentals and bought heavily into BYD, a relatively unknown Chinese car company. At this point, BYD is a better made car, is about five years plus ahead of Tesla technologically, and is about half the price. It also has better paint and a much wider choice of colors and more models. In all five measures of EV sales, Tesla is now Number Two behind BYD. (n.b. Yes, I know there are six fundamental measures, but Tesla does not offer hybrids.)

Unfortunately, BYD vehicles are banned in the US for the above reasons.

China has no way out anymore. From my observation, 95% or more of the people support the government fighting to the bitter end.

From the grassroots to the elites, this is basically the prevailing attitude.

Even those who specialize in trade with the U.S. say: “At worst, we go bankrupt, but we support the government fighting to the end!”

(Faced with U.S. tariffs, the mentality of the Chinese people has reached a state akin to that of “Chen Sheng and Wu Guang”: to resist is to die, to surrender is also to die—so why not resist?)

The occasional surrender faction has already been branded as “traitors” by public opinion.

(During the last tariff war, there was an “economist” who said that surrendering to the United States at that time would come at the smallest cost. He even explicitly stated: we must kneel to the United States, and kneel in the standard posture of a slave. What’s infuriating is that back then, such remarks that humiliated our ancestors actually had quite a few supporters! This time, in the current tariff war, those voices have completely disappeared. If anyone dares to say something like that again, I’d be worried about their personal safety.)

If you’ve seen my previous posts, you might think I’m biased against liberal arts students — and honestly, I can’t help it!

So many so-called economists, lawyers, and poets or somthing else in China don’t know how to build a tank or construct a dam, yet they always act like they know everything.

How ridiculous!

I can’t help but say a few more words. Vietnam, Bangladesh, India, and almost all Southeast Asian countries should learn from China, reduce the proportion of humanities, and vigorously promote STEM disciplines. Take Vietnam, for example—I remember the data showing that 91% of students prefer studying humanities.

This is wrong!

When I was in school, the ratio of science and engineering students to humanities students in China was about 8:1. Today, it’s probably around 1:1 (the proportion of humanities is way too high!).

When it comes to a real contest of national strength, what are you going to do? Stuff lawyers into cannons and fire them off?

“First, let’s kill all the lawyers!” (Henry III). Well, I didn’t realize Shakespeare could predict the form of warfare centuries later…

Recently, I heard two pieces of news that made me very happy. First, Fudan University (one of China’s top five universities) has decided to reduce liberal arts degrees by 20% and shift them to science and engineering. Second, the civil service exam will increase the difficulty of math and physics.

Excellent!

I’m so happy I could go crazy!

(The image below shows the casualty rates of students from Japan’s top university, the University of Tokyo, during the kamikaze attacks launched by Japan against the United States in the later stages of World War II. Liberal arts students were sent to their deaths, while science and engineering students were preserved. The Japanese weren’t stupid)

So on this issue, China has no choice—it will inevitably take a hardline stance, even if it escalates into full-scale nuclear war.

The government very rarely launched a 12,000-kilometer missile and, even more unusually, broadcast on television the 5,000-kilometer nuclear defense fortifications built over decades along mountain ranges—the so-called “Underground Great Wall.” This was essentially laying it all out for the people.

China’s reaction isn’t up for debate. It’s like a “checkmate” in chess—if you don’t make that move, you lose.

Vietnam, on the other hand, is much more interesting!

So this piece will mainly focus on Vietnam.

Vietnam is different from countries like Laos and Cambodia.

Historically, it has been too heavily influenced by China—too similar to China. (Vietnam was once Chinese territory for 1,000 years.)

Countries like Laos, Cambodia, and even Thailand lack the ambition to unify the Indochina Peninsula. Vietnam, however, once had such ambitions and even put them into practice.

But from China’s national interest perspective, it absolutely cannot allow a “China-like” power to emerge on its border. That’s why the 1979 Sino-Vietnamese War happened—partly to align with the U.S. in countering the Soviet Union, but more importantly, for national interest.

China views the Korean Peninsula and Vietnam differently because these two nations are so deeply influenced by Chinese culture.

We can tell what these two countries are thinking far too easily—it’s like looking into a mirror.

“If we don’t know others, don’t we at least know ourselves?”

But the Korean Peninsula’s development is capped by its inherent conditions. Unless it annexes Japan—which isn’t very likely for now—and even if it did, its population and territory would still be limited.

Vietnam is different. The Indochina Peninsula has a population of hundreds of millions and nearly half of China’s land area. China will never allow a major power with a civilization similar to its own to emerge—that would be China’s nightmare.

In fact, Vietnam knows this too. 1979 was a time when China was extremely weak, a “once-in-a-thousand-years opportunity” for Vietnam.

The result? Starting with the war against France, then the Vietnam War with the U.S., and later fighting China…

Endless wars.

Deng Xiaoping’s words were: “Such a small country, maintaining an army of 1 million along the border year after year—they can’t sustain it.”

During the decade-long war with Vietnam, China pursued reform and opening up, developed its industry, and saw its economy take off, while Vietnam remained mired in the quagmire of war, missing its chance.

After the Soviet Union collapsed, Vietnam lost its biggest external backer, and Sino-Vietnamese relations eased.

But Vietnam missed the most important decade of globalization.

Later, Vietnam took over downstream industries from China, began reforms, and developed its economy.

Unfortunately, just as it was starting to see progress, deglobalization kicked in…

This tariff war initiated by the U.S. is a matter of life and death for Vietnam!

I’m too lazy to look up the exact numbers, but roughly speaking, Vietnam’s exports to the U.S. are around $130 billion, while its imports from the U.S. are about $15 billion.

Based on President Trump’s bizarre tariff calculations, the tariffs Vietnam faces are actually much heavier than those on China!

This is a catastrophic blow to Vietnam.

That’s why Vietnam’s General Secretary, To Lam, immediately planned a visit to the U.S. and announced that tariffs on the U.S. would be reduced to 0.

Trump was very pleased.

However, you need to understand that of Vietnam’s $150 billion in exports to the U.S., most of it involves downstream products from China.

For example, Vietnam buys electricity, parts, and chips from China, assembles them in Vietnam, and then sells them to the U.S. at a slightly higher price than the cost.

I don’t know the exact figures, but I estimate that of this $150 billion, China probably earns $100 billion or more.

So Vietnam’s immediate announcement of dropping tariffs on the U.S. to 0 is an act of self-preservation: it hopes the U.S. will lower tariffs on Vietnam in return.

There are two possibilities:

  1. Trump’s real goal is to bring manufacturing back to the U.S. In that case, no matter how much Vietnam pleads, Trump won’t lower tariffs on Vietnam.
  2. Trump realizes that the trade war with China has ended up hurting both sides—causing inflation and public discontent in the U.S.—but for the sake of votes, he can’t show weakness. Vietnam’s 0% tariff offer gives him a way out. He could “magnanimously” announce forgiveness for Vietnam, granting it either 0% tariffs or a preferential 10% rate.

If it’s Option 1, Vietnam will face an extremely tough period. But the Vietnamese people’s endurance is similar to that of the Chinese—I believe they’ll still hold on. And this would push Vietnam closer to China. When winter comes, they’ll huddle together for warmth.

If it’s Option 2, Vietnam will strike it rich, becoming an unspoken middleman for both China and the U.S. Chinese industrial goods would flow to Vietnam, get stamped with a “Made in Vietnam” label, and head to the U.S.; U.S. goods would do the same, eventually entering China via the Vietnam-China border. It might not even need to be that complicated—Vietnam could just set up a company in China’s Ningbo Port, and U.S. goods could be shipped directly to this “Vietnamese company” in Ningbo.

These are just some of my random thoughts. I actually have no knowledge of economics. The only book I ever tried to read was Microeconomics, and I threw it aside after less than 10 pages—I couldn’t understand it…

Mid-Life Crisis – A woman speaks

I’m 46 and I’m undergoing one right now, and it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever experienced.

It’s terribly amusing when you see it on a sitcom and there’s a middle-aged guy thinking he’s fooling people with his comb-over and his convertible, yet when it’s happening to you, I can assure there’s nothing funny about it, and there’ll come a day when awareness is higher and it’s as reprehensible to trivialise this phenomenon as it now is to trivialise other mental disorders, in the way that we used to in decades past.

I have everything I thought I ever wanted – a loving husband, my dream home, great teenaged kids who are doing well, I live in the first world, wonderful friends and family, awesome sex life, and I’m transitioning into a new career that’s really intellectually stimulating and rewarding. After a prolonged period of ill-health, I’m finally recovering my health. On paper, I have everything.

And yet… and yet.

Now that I’m getting better, and have some free time, I want to do everything and experience everything that I missed out on during the years that I was ill and the years that I was out of the workforce due to illness and child-rearing, and I want to do it now, before I’m too old, and I’m regressing to the level of a teenager. I’m so immature, and I’m rebelling like a teenager, and I’m a developing a parent-child relationship with my husband.

I’m aware of it, yet I feel completely powerless to stop it. The sheer force of this urge is overwhelming. I haven’t been an addict, but I imagine what I’m experiencing is something like being addicted to something that doesn’t deprive you of reason – perhaps like being a gambling addict, where you’re cognitively aware that you’re an addict, but don’t feel able to control it. You know what you’re doing, but feel like you’re an observer of your life, berating yourself constantly for your choices, aware that you’re being self-destructive, but driven by an urge that feels more powerful than your reason.

I resent having any limitations on my activities, even limits that I don’t want to transgress.

It pisses me off that I can’t just decide to go backpack in Thailand, even though I don’t really want to do that. It annoys me that I can’t go and pick up guys in bars, even though I don’t want to do that. (OK, maybe I do want to do that. :p) It irritates me that I can’t take a job in Dubai. It burns me that I can’t just take off with my girlfriends to the snowfields for a weekend.

And, yeah, OK, a lot of that stuff I could do if I organised it in advance and got my family on board, yada yada yada, but that’s precisely the responsibility I’m rebelling against.

I’m furious that I’ve got all the obligations – a mortgage, kids, a husband – that come with precisely the lifestyle I’ve always wanted and worked towards having.

Is that contradictory and hypocritical?

Of course it is.

Nobody said that a mid-life crisis was logical or rational.

I’m sure that we go through some variant of teenage brain again.

I still have all the wisdom and lessons and maturity that I picked up in my 20s, 30s, and early 40s, but it’s like they’ve been put aside. They’ll be available again when I need them, and I can access them when I really need to – when I need to “adult” for a while – but most of the time, I’m finding it really hard to “adult”.

You know what I really think would help me, and possibly a whole lot of others going through this? Something akin to the Amish “year off” of Rumspringa. I think it’d be beneficial for a whole lot of marriages if we mid-life-crisis sufferers just went and lived in an apartment on our own for a year, ran wild, and got it out of our system. I’m not sure, but I suspect that the vast majority of us would find out that freedom’s not all it’s cracked up to be, and at the end of the year – or possibly even sooner – we’d come home with our tails between our legs, ready to resume our suburban existences, and get on with our lives, happily.

But by trying to carry on with our normal suburban existence during the crisis, and stay confined within the boxes of our lives while we deal with it, we drive our families and ourselves mad, we spend a fortune on therapy, and we drag it out over years.

I dunno. But I’d be interested to hear what Anita Sanz and Mike Leary and others who have experience in this domain think of this idea. 🙂

Meantime, I’ll keep holding onto this rollercoaster, hoping my husband keeps riding it with me, and fervently hoping that we’re both still here when this ride ends. It’s not a fun ride. I hate that I can’t get off this ride sooner. I hate that I’m putting my husband through this. I love that he’s still here with me, and riding patiently with me.

I hope if you find yourself on this ride, you are able to be patient with yourself, and that your spouse is able to be patient with you.

It’s not trivial, and it’s not easy. Be kind to us.

Edit 2 Jan 2018: It’s nearly 2 years since I wrote this answer, and I’ve “done a lot of living” in that time – a very amicable divorce, a lot of dating, a new home, a new relationship, graduation, a couple of overseas trips, a couple of jobs, and a new career – and the rebellious streak is “just about out of my system”.

I’m definitely getting frustrated with the passage of time, and realising there’s not enough time to do all the things I had planned – at least not unless I hurry up!

Life is great. I ‘know who I am’, and have far less desire to pretend to be anybody but exactly who I am. If people don’t like me, it no longer bothers me as it used to. I certainly don’t seek to offend, but if I’m not somebody’s ‘cup of tea’, well, the sooner I find that out, the sooner we can both move on to find other company. That is no longer something that I consider my problem.

There are many positives to aging, and life can be great on the other side of a mid-life crisis.

Edit 28 Jul 2020: With the perspective of more time and distance, I now think that my “mid-life crisis” was the breaking point after many years of dissatisfactions that I allowed to accumulate and did my best to “grin and bear”. I was in denial, but you can only fool yourself for so long. Out of respect for our privacy, I won’t elaborate other than to say my ex husband and I both made mistakes in our marriage. We also both did the best that we could at the time. It doesn’t have to be somebody’s “fault” that a marriage ends. We have both re-partnered and we all compete weekly in a pub trivia team, including our young adult sons, and my ex’s partner’s teenaged son. We also spend Christmas and other family events together as extended family. It’s a great outcome. 🙂

Taco Rice Bowl

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5926faaf05cf315cc79fa703d1aa7175

Ingredients

  • 1 to 3 cups uncooked rice*
  • About 2 1/2 cups tomato juice
  • 1 to 4 teaspoons Taco Seasoning
  • 1/2 cup finely chopped onion (or 1 to 2 tablespoons dried)
  • 2 or 3 fresh tomatoes, depending on size
  • 1 (4 ounce) can chopped green chiles
  • 6 cups cooked beans (two 15 ounce cans)
  • 1/2 teaspoon garlic salt
  • 2 to 3 cups shredded lettuce
  • 1 cup shredded cheese
  • 2 to 3 cups salsa, to taste
  • 3 cups cooked cubed chicken
  • Cilantro (garnish)
  • Chives or green onions (garnish)
  • Sour cream

Instructions

  1. Substitute tomato juice for water on rice package directions. Measure enough rice and tomato juice for 6 servings. Add 1 1/2 teaspoons taco seasoning and the onion to tomato juice. Prepare rice following package directions.
  2. Chop tomatoes. Stir half the tomatoes and the canned chiles into rice.
  3. Season cooked beans to taste with garlic salt, and taco seasoning. Use a potato masher to partially mash beans (may substitute refried beans, if desired – thin to desired consistency with water).
  4. Spoon 1/2 to 3/4 cups rice in bottom of bowl. Add about 1/2 cup seasoned beans, shredded lettuce, cheese, and salsa. Top with cubed or sliced cooked chicken. Garnish with sprigs of cilantro, chives and a dollop of sour cream.

Notes

* May use Minute, short grain or long grain rice. Measure enough rice for 6 servings.

I’m now 70. I never married, never had kids. I live alone. At 48, I accepted a guys housekey offer, lived with him 3 months. While still paying rent & utilities at my own apartment. End of 3 months, I went back home. “So when I was old I could look back & say I lived with a guy.” I feel if I put my mind to something, I always manage to do it & do it well. Had i married young, I woulda probably still been married. But that pulls so many others, relatives, their friends, all into Your life. Being a single hermit at 70 is quite serene simple & drama free

Answering as a disabled Canadian who’s had to access my provincial healthcare system far more often than I’d like for both myself and some now deceased relatives.

We don’t receive any bills and we don’t need to deal with any paperwork. Well aside from parking, snacks and TV if staying in the hospital, I mean.

Let me spell it out for you. In Canada you do not need any money for any kind medical appointment, procedure, surgery or hospital stay. You will not be billed for any of it at any time if you’re a legal resident of Canada. You will not be required to have anything pre-approved and if a doctor orders anything for you, you get it, period. There are no reams of paperwork to fill out. There are no insurance agents or bureaucrats of any kind that have any say in what tests, treatments, procedures and surgeries we can have. All of our care is between us and our doctors, no one else.

We have some of the best trained doctors on the planet and contrary to American rumours, we also have modern facilities and medical technology.

Sure there may be a wait to see a specialist, or have to have imaging such an MRI, or to have a non urgent procedure or surgery, but if it’s urgent you’ll be seen a lot sooner and if it’s life or death, you’re seen immediately. There are no treatment caps and no-one is ever refused care because of their age or disability. It is always based on what’s best for the patient.

Healthcare in Canada is delivered on a triage basis and has nothing at all to do with how much money one does or does not have. You cannot buy your way to the front of the line here.

The costs for all of this are half of what the US pays per capita for their non system and it’s a lot more equitable and effective.

It’s not perfect and there’s always room for improvement, but Canadian healthcare is still one of the best on the planet.

I really don’t understand why Americans don’t listen. Scads of folks from all over the free world have been trying to show the US how much better things are with a form of universal healthcare (UHC), especially a single payer version, for decades. Some of us have explained it ad naseum here on Quora, yet still they act like we must be lying. They really need to stop believing right wing politicians, because they flat out lie about UHC.

Catch a clue America, it’s no skin off our nose if you choose to continue suffering without a form of UHC. We have no reason to lie as it would gain us nothing at all. We simply don’t want to see our fellow humans suffer unnecessarily. Speaking of which, y’all should be demanding Trump’s removal from office. He and Musk are trying to ensure that you do without any healthcare at all that you can’t outright pay for, all to fund tax cuts for the uber wealthy.

HIDEOUS

Written in response to: Write a story about a cherished heirloom that has journeyed through multiple generations.

Deb Dobbins

In 1913 my great-great-great grandmother Estele bought the most hideous lamp at a secondhand store. It was ridiculously tall, made of multi-colored glass, a pointed silver sphere on top and a large copper base. She didn’t know then, but this lamp would change the course of all our lives, forever.I’m also Estele, my mom said she named me after my great-great-gr, well you get it… she said it was because my Grandmother Estele was a card. When I asked what that meant, she said “you know, a hoot.” I didn’t know, I shrugged… she continued, “She was great fun. Like You.” I still wasn’t sure what she meant, I wouldn’t call myself Great fun, but it sounded good.The story I recite to you now was passed down through generations of my family. It goes something like this.One night, not long after buying the lamp, an exceedingly high-pitched humming woke Grandma Estele from a sound sleep. She had been having some ringing in her ears that her doctor had prescribed drops for, he called it tinnitus. The drops were little if any help, when she heard the humming that nigh she assumed this was part of that affliction.

 

Later, that same night, she went to the kitchen for a drink. As she passed through the living-room she noticed the lamp was glowing and emitting the exact high-pitched sound she had been hearing. She hadn’t noticed a lava substance inside the class globe before this, but now it was a florescent goo, bubbling and churning counterclockwise inside the glass globe. Rooted to the spot she was unable to tear eyes away from the lamp. The silver top was shining like a bright star, and the copper base was levitating the lamp two or three inches above the table upon which it normally sat.

 

After a time, the humming stopped, as well as the lamp stopped moving. Estele continued to the kitchen, drank a glass of water, and went back to bed as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. When she woke up the next morning, she remembered bits but thought it to be some weird dream.

 

This became a regular occurrence for most of her years. Awakened in the early hours, drawn to the lamp, she would stand motionless watching its show then return to bed unaware. The rest of the time the lamp would sit on a table alone, in a place of prominence to all the world like an unsightly, old lamp.

 

On grandma Estele’ death bed, she told the story to her daughter Caroline, making her swear to keep the lamp in the family’s control, passing it down from one generation to the next, so long as our familial line survived. If for some reason our line died out, the last survivor must pass the lamp on to someone they felt could, “be trusted” with the obligation.

 

This is the part, my great-great grandmother had a tough time believing; Grandma Estele had told her; “there will come a time when the people of our planet have destroyed everything, and the planet will no longer be sustainable. When this happens, whoever is in possession of the lamp at that time will receive instructions, through the lamp, telling how to save many survivors.

 

My great, great, grandma, Caroline couldn’t believe the story and took it as the ponderings of a senile old woman. She stored the lamp in the attic, she wanted nothing more to do with it. She feared there might be some strange and unbelievable truth to the story therefor hesitated to discard it…

 

One-night, many years later, she heard a pounding in the attic—a sound that echoed only in her ears. Grandma Caroline afflicted with tinnitus like her mother, began to think there might be something to the tale her mother had spun on her death bed.

 

As she ascended the stairs to the attic her trembling was so intense, lifting her feet from step to step felt impossible. The pounding was so severe Caroline feared the attic floor would collapse as she stepped through the doorway.

 

Multiple colors of light shot from the churning and bubbling in the glass globe, the silver sphere on the top of the lamp was spinning so quickly it almost appeared motionless. The copper base slammed down onto the table after hovering above it momentarily. Caroline watched in fear for what seemed like hours. The lamp stopped spinning and churning, stood motionless once again on the table.

Caroline moved sure-footed down the stairs on previously treacherous legs, not remembering the details of what had happened for many more years. Upon her death bed it all came flooding back as if it were yesterday.

 

Caroline lay in the hospital bed whispering into her daughter Shasta’ ear. She shared the story her mother had imparted to her on her deathbed, intertwining it with her own unbelievable tale. Caroline told of the message given to her that momentous night in the attic. Revealed to her that night was another piece of the mystery.

“Those who are selected will know when the time comes, they will also experience a humming, ringing, or buzzing in their ears. Through this connection, they will know when to prepare for the great departure.”

 

Great Grandma Shasta promptly removed the lamp from her mothers’ house, carefully transporting it to its new home, once again giving it the place of prominence it expected. Shasta carefully watched over the lamp, polishing it daily and feeling an unfamiliar warmth when she was near it. As instructed by her mother she never shared the secrets of the lamp with others. Through the years she spoke to the lamp, telling it of the changes to life on the planet and how fearful she was becoming.

 

One night, as she relaxed at home alone, a loud buzzing penetrated her subconscious. The lamp began to shake and rotate above the table, lights shot out from the glass globe, penetrating her body to its deepest core. Afterwards Shasta lay in her bed a strange warmth spreading throughout her body, it gave her a feeling of intense wellbeing.

 

On Shasta’s 95th birthday, she pulled her daughter, Aurora, aside to share the tale passed down for three generations. As she recounted her own encounter with the lamp, she seemed to glow from within. She finished her tale by imparting the subliminal message, a warning the lamp gave her on that extraordinary night.

 

“Do not fear or worry, all will be revealed when the time approaches.” After the telling, Shasta lay her head against the back of her favorite rocker she had long ago placed beside the treasured lamp, then closed her eyes for the last time.

 

Aurora, my mother, spent hours looking at the lamp that day with mixed emotions. If the lamp was the cause of her mother’s longevity, was she the only one, if so, why was she blessed with this. Or is it possible that the lamp was the cause of her demise that day?

 

When she transported the lamp to its new home with her family, she felt an eerie warmth emanating from it. As she placed it on the mantle over the fireplace, she could feel the essence of all the women who beheld the lamp before her.

 

Over the years Aurora felt a deep connection with the lamp, watching it stir and listening intently to the sounds emanating from the globe. She wanted to share this experience with her family, but remembered, Grandma Shasta’s warning to never to tell anyone. Unsure of what might happen if she did, afraid to surrender her secret and find out, she struggled with the fear to share it and the desire and hope that doing so would free her mind.

 

Aurora lacked the strength of the families past generations of women, after too many years of internal struggle, the strain unexpectantly claimed her life before she could pass on the instructional tale to me, her daughter, Estele LaChance Prosper.

 

My twenty first birthday was only a month prior to my mother’s death at the early age of forty-one. While sorting through my mother, Auroras private things, I found her diaries, read the stories passed on from my great grandmothers and my grandmother Shasta. As I read of the relationship my mother had with the lamp, the turmoil it caused her, I surmised the reason behind her rapid decline. I hated the lamp, wanted to destroy it. I tried burning it in the huge basement furnace, leaving it for a week before checking on the progress of its destruction.

 

As I opened the door to the furnace room, the lamp was waiting, it was turning slowly inside the huge furnaces belly. The lights in the glass globe were flashing brightly and the silver sphere on top was burning bright red. As soon as the furnace door was opened, the lamp shot out of the furnace grazing my arm on the way by. It flew around the room, darting from side to side, stopped and floated expectantly in front of me. When the silver tip ceased to pulse, a red-hot throbbing filled my head accompanied by a loud pounding in my ears.

 

I threw my hands over my ears as a barrier to block out the noise, but the sound was inside of my head. I realized I was unable to stop it. I fell onto the hard concrete floor landing on my knees. The lamp touched down a slight foot away, but I hadn’t the strength to reach out to it. Cowered on the floor, the pain in my head explosive, blood trickled from my ears and spread across my hands. I lifted my gaze to the glass dome of the lamp and screamed, “STOP!”

 

 

My eyes pop open, followed by my body; popping up like a jack-in-the-box, with no music accompaniment and no longer the the hot throbbing pain. I quickly twirled around in search of the lamp, finding it hovering at the top of the basement stairs. I struggled up the stairs muttering under my breath, I must be crazy, or this must be a nightmare. Surly, I thought, I must be in my room, lying on my bed sound asleep.

 

I followed the lamp as it floated through the hallway, past my bedroom. So much for my being in bed asleep, I thought. Moving with ease and finally without pain, I followed the lamp through the doorway at the end of the hall. I watched as the lamp set itself down gently on the table beside the rocking chair that Grandma Shasta had left to my mother when she passed. I sat in the chair, eyeing the lamp inquisitively. “OK, what now?”

 

A warming high-pitched humming vibrated through me, gently moving past the outer layer of skin and flesh, past bone, and into my organs. The sound filled my head, invading my sensory nerves. I watched the colors change and twirl in the glass globe, the copper base shown brighter, pulsing in-sync with the humming in my head. I relaxed and closed my eyes, focused intently on the message sent to my subliminal cortex.

“I won’t forget.” I say aloud.

 

Now, I at the desk in my space cabin, going over my ledger, ensuring a proper and complete transcript is available for the generations to come. I am writing everything recalled in the diaries all my grandmothers had passed on, one to the other, and eventually to me.

 

This is my first entry into my survivors’ log…

Departure from earth, now on our way to new home planet, led by the guiding light of the lamp my grandmother purchased four generations before me. A universal mapped -out route of travel is input here.

 

Here, I write the words to live by in peace, love and understanding transmitted to me by the survivor lamps guiding light.

 

#1. Do not be afraid, the lamp is here to guide you.

 

#2. When you arrive at your destination, form groups according to ability and profession.

 

#3. Practice love of one another and of your new home planet.

 

#4. You must always be ready, for when the need should arise to leave here and find another compatible planet.

.

#5 When the time comes to lead those deemed worthy of the movement, those who crave freedom from tyranny, and oppression from regimes who seek control of all things and people, caring only for their own monetary and self-fulfilling gains, with no regard for the needs and desires of others.

 

#6. You will know those earnest devotees, by the pledge implanted in their memory, which they will communicate to you, using the language we have taught you. Be prepared to acknowledge and accept them as brothers and sisters.

 

After writing these directives down for future generations along with the tales from my grandmothers, mother, and myself. I relayed that in my mother’s diary, my name, LaChance, is short for “Last Chance”.

 

I closed my ledger; I leave it on my desk for future readers. I feel a tiredness of the ages, worn and frazzled nerves.

I am eager now for a nice long nap. I lay on my cot, hearing nothing but quiet. Finally. At long last…

It’s a dare for strike 3.

When Trump increased tariff on China for the first time this year, China’s response was very light.

This is called 先礼后兵, or “courtesy before war” in Chinese.

Now that Trump did it again, China matched with 34% tariff, and upped the ante a bit, banning some American farm products due to “health reasons”, banning 11 American drone companies from buying tech components in China, and banning the export of some rare earth minerals, which will stall American military industry in producing some advanced weaponry.

This is called 事不过三, or “Never a third time” warning in Chinese.

What may have really got Trump rattled that he tweeted like that, is the potential mass effect the Chinese response may bring. The American tariff on the world is unpopular around the world. There’s also the claims of American expansion to Canada and Greenland, abandoning of Europe to Russia, Trump has basically put the US against the whole world, and the expectation was that other countries due to fear of the US, would not retaliate. China has just stood out and set an example.

Will other countries/regions that are equally or more unhappy, follow China?

To deter them, I get the feeling that the US may foolishly try something against China again, if just to set an example for other countries.

That’s when we will see some real interesting Chinese response.

“WHO IS JOHN WICK!?” John Wick (2014) First Time Watching Movie Reaction Compilation

WARNING: The year was 1972 – KEEP THIS IN MIND.

This rich kid (I will call him Eric) – he was born on December 25. So he always gets doubled up on presents – birthday presents SEPARATE from Holiday (Hanukkah and Christmas) presents.

His grandfather offered to buy him any car he wanted since he turned 18. He said he wanted a Porsche Sports car a RED one with Leather Interior with 8 Track- a 1973 Porsche 911 Carrera RS 2.7. Well, his grandfather wasn’t able to get him that (unavailable in the area or region) – so in turn he bought him a 1973 Porsche 914/4 2.0! Both are extremely expensive sports cars!

His grandfather had it gift wrapped with a mega-giant bow with a super sized gift tag which said “Happy Hanukkah, Christmas and Birthday! Happy Everything Eric!”

I was only a kid, invited over December 25th, 1972 (Monday) at 11 AM until 1 PM – Birthday Party (his parents hired me for lawn and pool care, thought I would enjoy this).

Prime Rib & 2.5–3 Pound Lobster → with all the fixings was for lunch, and a triple decker birthday cake!! (UGH! Left me with no room in my tummy for my own family Christmas Dinner – Ham with all the fixings!)

He opened all of his birthday presents (I got him a car model with paint and glue – he loved to build cars).

(Image of Rolls Royce Phantom – Revelle – taken from the internet)

The biggest present was a HUGE BOX – (main) and plus he had to open 17 other boxes (grew smaller and smaller and smaller). He was thinking all along that it was money. (By the time he got to the 15th box – it was getting smaller.) Then the 18th box, which was the size of the palm of your hand… He opened it and unfolded the paper which the message read: “Happy Birthday Grandson, Sorry I could not be there. I got the car you wanted, the keys are on top of the fireplace mantle! Your Parents have the paperwork and all. Love Gramps!”

He immediately rushed to the fire place mantle, found the keys – and it had the Porsche emblem on it. And he shouted “YIPPEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!” and rushed outside and finding on the front lawn (this was the reason why his parents had the curtains drawn in the front of the house with the “excuse of” morning sun blaring through the windows.)

He rips the bow off, and followed by wrapping paper and just stood there – visibly upset!

He went back inside the house and cried! His parents were a bit confused, and everyone who was “excited” for him… were also confused. I was bewildered! (In fact, if I was given the car, I would have been on cloud 9 – but my parents wouldn’t let me own it – HA) Yes, he was on the expensive leather luxury recliner crying like an 18 month old brat!

DAD: What’s the matter son?
ERIC: It’s a 914, I wanted the 911
MOM: They didn’t have any in stock or availability in the area.
DAD: Son, that’s an expensive gift from my dad, you will call him up and you will thank him!
ERIC: It’s not a 911, it’s a 914! I wanted a 911! Not some cheap crap!
MOM: Too bad, you got your Porsche, and Gramps went into the extreme measure to get everything you wanted inside and out. THEY JUST DID NOT HAVE 911’s available!
DAD: If you refuse to take it, I will have them pick it up and return everything back to Dad.

ERIC: (remained on chair bawling like a brat)

ERIC’S GIRLFRIEND: (she’s furious with his behavior) ERIC! I cannot possibility believe that you’re 18 years old and behaving like a toddler! Yes, You’re a spoiled brat! In fact, my daddy and mommy would have done this to me (slaps him in the face) if I behaved like that. GOOD BYE!

Eric’s girlfriend walked out on him, plus a couple of his buddies (friends). I showed myself out the door.

Since his dad, he wanted me to come over Friday, to winterize the pool again (because the temps were above normal). When I returned to do their pool, he still had his 914 Porsche, his girlfriend was back, he apologized to everyone. While I was working on their pool – he came from behind (startling me) to say “He was sorry for the way he behaved on his birthday.” I forgave him.

FAST FORWARD → 33 years to the future:

Eric and his long time girlfriend turned wife, married. He took over his grandfather’s business. He still had that car in his possession. His wife named the car “Baby” and he called his car “Blaze”. When I saw it, the red paint had faded, it had nearly 77k miles on it. It was his daily driver on business engagements when he had to travel within 2,000 miles.

I also learned that his tires were stolen (when he was in New York City, New York)! Which his wife chimed in, “best thing ever happened” – my reaction was a bit befuddled at that remark until she finished it off “that car needed a new set of tires anyway….” Eric was laughing, and proceeded with “Yup, she’s been nagging about it, in fact, I think she paid someone to steal the tires!” Which she said “ERIC! I’VE TOLD YOU TONS OF TIMES, I DID NOT HIRE ANYONE TO STEAL THE TIRES!”

IMAGE ACQUIRED FROM THE INTERNET – 1973 Porsche 914/4 2.0 – Red (to some people the car’s paint may look “orange” due to your graphics – but it is red)

Sir Whiskerton and the Case of the Mysterious Rustling Bush: A Tale of Curiosity, Yodeling, and One Very Confused Fish

Ah, dear reader, prepare yourself for a tale of intrigue, absurdity, and a rustling bush that sent the entire farm into a tizzy. Today’s story is one of feline wisdom, echoing kittens, and a fish that yodels like it’s auditioning for a Swiss opera. So, grab your magnifying glass (or a snack, if you’re more like Porkchop the Pig), as we dive into Sir Whiskerton and the Case of the Mysterious Rustling Bush: A Tale of Curiosity, Yodeling, and One Very Confused Fish.


The Rustling Heard ‘Round the Farm

It all began on a perfectly ordinary Tuesday—or at least, as ordinary as days get on Sir Whiskerton’s farm. The sun was shining, the chickens were clucking, and Bessie the Tie-Dye Cow was humming Tip-Toe Through the Tulips for the 47th time that morning.

Suddenly, a rustling noise erupted from a bush near the pond.

  • “Ack! It’s a monster!” Doris the Hen squawked, flapping her wings like a malfunctioning windmill.
  • “Monster!” Harriet echoed, diving headfirst into a pile of hay.
  • “Hay!” Lillian added, fainting dramatically onto Harriet.

Even Rufus the Dog, usually brave (or at least distractible), let out a high-pitched whimper and hid behind Sir Whiskerton.

I, being the farm’s resident genius and self-appointed detective, merely flicked my tail and sighed. “Honestly, it’s probably just the wind. Or a squirrel. Or—”

Another rustle. Louder this time.

  • “IT’S COMING FOR US!” Doris shrieked.
  • “US!” Ditto, my ever-echoing apprentice, yowled directly into my ear.

I winced. “Ditto, my dear protégé, today’s lesson is: Always investigate anything that moves. It might be food—or fun.

  • “What if it’s dangerous?” Ditto asked, wide-eyed.
  • “Then we’ll outsmart it. Or outrun it. Preferably outsmart.”

And with that, I sauntered toward the bush, Ditto trotting behind me like a tiny, furry shadow.


The Investigation Begins

As we approached the bush, the rustling grew more frantic.

  • “Maybe it’s a raccoon,” I mused.
  • “Raccoon!” Ditto echoed, then paused. “Wait, what’s a raccoon?”
  • “A tiny bandit with a penchant for shiny things and poor life choices.”

Just then, the bush exploded—not with leaves, but with sound.

“YODEL-AY-HEE-HOO!”

Ditto and I leapt backward as three fish flopped out of the bush, their scales glinting in the sunlight. They landed in perfect synchronization, arranged like a 1920s barbershop quartet—if barbershop quartets were aquatic and prone to yodeling.

  • “Fish!” Ditto gasped.
  • “Yodeling fish,” I corrected, my monocle (which I don’t actually need) nearly falling off in shock.

The lead fish, a particularly pompous-looking bass, cleared his throat (do fish have throats?) and belted out:

“We are the Yodeling Fish! And we demand an audience!”

  • “Audience!” Ditto repeated, then whispered, “Do we clap?”

The Yodeling Fish’s Dilemma

As it turned out, the Yodeling Fish had a problem.

  • “We were practicing our new act—Yodeling in the Moonlight—when we got… lost,” the bass explained.
  • “Lost!” the second fish, a trout with a flair for drama, warbled.
  • “We followed the sound of Bessie’s singing,” the third fish, a goldfish with a tiny beret, added. “But then we got stuck in this bush.”

I blinked. “You followed Bessie’s singing? That’s like following a siren song into a blender.”

  • “We’re artists! We go where the muse takes us!” the bass declared.
  • “Also, we can’t read maps,” the trout admitted.

Ditto, ever the eager student, tugged my tail. “So… investigating the bush led us to yodeling fish?”

  • “Precisely! Curiosity rewards the bold, Ditto. Sometimes with answers, sometimes with… well, this.” I gestured to the fish, who had begun harmonizing a mournful tune about the one that got away (which, given their current predicament, was ironic).

The Farm’s Hypnotic Meltdown

Meanwhile, the Yodeling Fish’s performance had an unexpected side effect.

  • “YODEL-AY-HEE-HOO!” they sang again.

And just like that, the farm animals froze. Then, as if pulled by invisible strings, they began moving in sync—Doris clucking in time, Rufus wagging rhythmically, even Porkchop the Pig swaying like a ballerina mid-snack.

  • “Uh oh,” Ditto said.
  • “They’re hypnotized,” I muttered. “Chef Remy did warn us about the fish’s ‘hypnotic yodeling’ after that glow-in-the-dark pickle incident.”

The bass fish gasped. “Our music is too powerful! We’ve created a barnyard ballet!”

  • “Ballet!” Ditto echoed, then pirouetted directly into a fence post.

The Great De-Yodelification Plan

With the farm in chaos, I took charge.

  • Step 1: Convince the fish to stop yodeling. (“But it’s our passion!” the trout protested.)
  • Step 2: Use Ferdinand the Duck’s opera training to counter the yodeling with a dramatic aria. (“I SHALL SING THEM INTO SANITY!” Ferdinand declared.)
  • Step 3: When that failed (Ferdinand’s idea of “counter-yodeling” was just screaming Figaro repeatedly), we moved to Plan C: Bribery.
  • “If you stop yodeling,” I offered, “we’ll build you a stage. In the pond.”

The fish gasped in unison. “A stage?”

  • “With a tiny spotlight,” Ditto added.
  • “And a curtain made of lily pads,” I finished.

The fish huddled, then nodded. “Deal.”

With one final, subdued “yodel-ay-hee-hoo,” the farm animals snapped out of their trance.

  • “Why am I covered in glitter?” Doris demanded.
  • “Why am I wearing a tutu?” Rufus asked, horrified.

I merely shrugged. “Art.”


The Moral of the Story

As the Yodeling Fish swam off to rehearse their next big number (Yodel Me Maybe), Ditto and I lounged on the barn roof.

  • “So, lesson learned?” I asked.
  • “Always investigate rustling bushes,” Ditto recited. “Because they might have yodeling fish. Or snacks.”
  • “Exactly. Curiosity leads to adventure, Ditto. Sometimes it’s chaos, sometimes it’s comedy, but it’s always worth it.”

The moral, dear reader? Curiosity can lead to unexpected rewards—whether it’s a new friend, a hilarious story, or a front-row seat to the world’s weirdest aquatic concert.


A Happy Ending

The Yodeling Fish got their lily pad stage (courtesy of Barry the Beaver, who insisted on a “rustic-chic” design). The farm returned to normal, though Rufus still twitched at the word yodel. And Ditto? Well, he now investigates everything—including my tail, which he remains convinced is “hiding secrets.”

As for me, I settled into my sunbeam, satisfied. Another mystery solved, another lesson taught, and another day proving that life on the farm is never, ever boring.

And so, dear reader, we leave our heroes with the promise of new adventures, new yodels, and hopefully, no more hypnotized chickens. Until next time, may your curiosity lead you to joy, laughter, and maybe a fish in a beret.

The End.

Mid-life Crisis 2 – A woman speaks

I am sure there are elements to a mid-life crisis that vary from person to person. No two people are alike. However, having turned fifty recently and having gone through a several-months-long depression, I think I can touch on some of the commonly experienced elements. I would add that the likelihood of a mid-life crisis may be considerably higher for someone who already has depression and has had many bouts of it before.

1. The harsh reality just may hit one day that you likely have less time ahead of you than you have behind you. I think this is the beginning trigger of mid-life crisis.

2. At this point, you are likely to start reflecting on regrets and missed opportunities. This can be devastating. Often in life, we follow a pattern of doing the wrong thing for many years. This could be a bad relationship, unsatisfactory employment, or whatever. Sometimes, we wake up one day and realize we have let this go on for too long. This can lead to feeling that it is too late to change. I think this is the most difficult symptom of mid-life and can lead to self-hate.

3. You may feel the loss of your youth. This can lead to attempts to recapturing that youth. Sometimes this leads to an older person dressing younger or dating a much younger person.

4. Growing older likely brings health problems. This too can be part of mid-life crisis.
________________________________________________________

Here are some of the solutions that got me through this bleak period.

1. Yes, you do have less time ahead of you, but older age has compensating qualities. I am no longer wondering what I am going to do with my life, what I am going to do for a living, what my children will be like, whom I will marry, or where I will go to school. In all likelihood, by fifty or so, you have already experienced all these things. You can try to enjoy the “now,” instead of wondering about the future. live in the present!

2. Yes, there will be regrets and thoughts of missed opportunities. But remember, no person’s life is perfect. We all make mistakes. The person living across the road is probably no happier than you, even if he is wealthier. He just has a different set of problems. He may put on a happy front for the world and still be filled with dissatisfaction. Instead of focusing on things that didn’t go so well, focus on your achievements. Perhaps you are not thoroughly pleased with your job but are very happy with your wife and the daughter you raised. Then, be thankful for the wife and daughter! Not everyone has those things. And many people who do have them are unhappy with them.

If you have been doing something wrong for many years, consider changing that pattern now. Yes, this is difficult, but I would rather look back on twenty years of a bad relationship or unhappy employment than a whole lifetime of it! If you make an important change at fifty, you will be able to look back at seventy-five and say “Wow, I am glad I made that change. For the last twenty-five years I have been doing it right!”

3. Another thing that helped me was the realization that I would not want to live forever. I think life is short, yes. but I do not want to suffer the same worries and anxieties through eternity. It is actually soothing to me to realize the struggle will one day end. That does not mean I want to die. It simply puts me more at ease with realizing that I will have to die one day. If I make an effort to change things I have done wrong now, and can be pleased with what I did right, I can die with satisfaction when the time comes.

4. Accept that life is not always fair and that you have not always been dealt a good hand. Facing discrimination may be one example of this. There are things we can’t change. Make the most of what you have and be proud of those times when you have prevailed against difficult circumstances.

Focus on your achievements. Accept your failures and realize that you learned from them. Failure is educational and important. It may not be too late for many of your goals! These days, a fifty year old can pursue a different career or start a new relationship and likely have quite a few years to enjoy them. Take up a new hobby. Travel to Europe if that is what you always wanted. The dream isn’t dead just because you are fifty or sixty.

5. Perhaps you have a health problem now. Well, all but the few very lucky people do. Maybe you have diabetes, or have had cancer. Perhaps your eyes are fading or sex is more difficult than it used to be. At one time or another, almost everyone is going to face some sort of health issue. I try not to think of this as part of old age. I look at it another way. There are ten-year-old children out there battling life-threatening cancer. I try to see my diminished abilities and my diabetes as my own personal struggle, rather than seeing them as part of growing older. Almost everyone has some big issue to deal with, regardless of age. I always think back to a particularly funny episode of “The Golden Girls” when Sophia is telling one of her buddies that she and all her friends have ailments and that you can’t get into one of her canasta games unless you have at least two major ailments. I am paraphrasing a little, not remembering her exact words. Thinking of it this way can make you smile and deal with it.

And I will say it again…the grass is not greener on the other side. Stop comparing yourself to other people. It is unlikely that the guy across the street is any happier than you are.

Finally, if you are having a lot of trouble, seek out help. There is no shame in that. A mental health professional can help you deal with your issues and get past this difficult time.

* I am not a mental health professional.

Canadian here.

On March 26, 2020 my wife drove me to hospital after days of severe fatigue and progressively oddly coloured stools, eventually purple. This was right at the beginning of the First Wave of COVID-19 here in Ontario.

I was admitted immediately. This was the last time I saw my wife in person for the next two weeks. We had never been apart for more than a couple of days since we were married over 20 years ago, it was rough. I had all manner of tests: full blood work-ups, x-rays, endoscopes, and a CT . The results were inconclusive, but my blood-iron was many times below normal and very low hemoglobin, so I was given a blood transfusion.

I had a surgeon who saw a hint of something in my abdominal CT, and she ordered a second CT, on what was meant to be my discharge day, with contrast and she found a small abnormality and booked an OR and got my consent. I had a 6.5cm GIST (cancerous tumour) removed from just below my pancreas on March 31st. I spent the next 9 days in recovery. I can’t thank my surgeon and nurses enough. It was pure hell back then. They were hugely understaffed, the hygiene routines were intense, their stress was evident and the fear of the pandemic palpable. But they did their jobs passionately. They are heroes, each and every one of them. I have no idea who they may be, I only ever saw their eyes and tufts of hair.

Anyway, I was discharged on April 9th. I’ve had annual; check-ups, CTs, ultrasounds, endoscopes, consults with my surgeon and oncologist for the last 5 years. All I’ve had to pay for out of pocket is parking in all that time.

I can’t begin to calculate how much I would have had to pay for similar treatment and care in the US, nor how long I would have waited for that care down there. I imagine I’d be bankrupt or dead from the first-hand horror stories I’ve read about US healthcare.

Whatever negative things you’re hearing about Universal Healthcare down there, you’re being lied to so that CEOs and insurance adjusters can keep their exorbitant paycheques.

No country with UH has gone back to a for-profit system, and the US is the only developed nation without it. Why might that be?

EPISODE 485 – THE DATING PROFILES OF MODERN WOMEN!

First of all, Taiwan is a province of China. Taiwan is not a country recognised by UN.

But mainland China & Taiwan have independent rules/laws to govern their places.

Back to the question.

China did once ban Taiwanese agricultural products eg pineapple & some fish.

China found bugs or fungus on Taiwanese agricultural products. China asked Taiwan 7 times to improve the situation but got ignored by Taiwanese DPP (the one who wants independence). DPP did not bother to tell their farmers. Finally China banned import from Taiwan.

Of course, Taiwan DPP blamed it on China for being discriminatory. Then Taiwan sold it cheap to other places including Hongkong, Singapore, Canada & more.

Singapore opened few pineapples. The core of pineapples was greyish black, meaning there was fungus. Same for those sold in Hongkong or elsewhere like Canada. That is, China was not discriminatory.

The same happened to Taiwanese fish. Got worms or insects. Again, after many warnings but got ignored by DPP, China banned it.

I do not know if Taiwan has improved the situation & if China has lifted the ban as of 2025.

When the questioner asked this question, s/he may wonder if USA can unilaterally tariff or embargo another country/place’s products. WTO rules say NO.

In fact, USA always gives excuses to ban this & that eg. threaten US security, US being ripped off etc etc.

The difference of a mafia & a genuine business trade partner like China is that a mafia makes allegation without proof. Whereas China’s allegation can be proved by anybody who opened a pineapple to see it with their own eyes.

China also banned Japan’s seafood after Japan’s nuclear plant was damaged by earthquake & Japan dumped radioactive materials into Pacific ocean. China wanted to take an independent sample to test their dumped water. But Japan refused. So China banned Japanese seafood.

These days I heard Japan finally agreed to let China take an independent sample. I have not heard anything since then.

Your allegation must be genuine & can be proved by a 3rd party.

Pictures

SDXL 10 Vintage gentleman logo a grinning duck wearing a prof 3
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SDXL 10 Vintage gentleman logo a grinning duck wearing a prof 0
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SDXL 10 Vintage gentleman logo a grinning duck wearing a prof 7
SDXL 10 Vintage gentleman logo a grinning dog wearing a profe 0(1)
SDXL 10 Vintage gentleman logo a grinning dog wearing a profe 0(1)
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SDXL 10 Vintage gentleman logo a grinning dog wearing a profe 1(1)
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SDXL 10 Vintage gentleman logo a grinning dog wearing a profe 2(1)
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SDXL 10 Vintage gentleman logo a grinning dog wearing a profe 3(1)
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SDXL 10 Vintage gentleman logo a grinning dog wearing a profe 7(1)
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SDXL 10 Vintage gentleman logo a grinning dog wearing a profe 4(2)
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SDXL 10 Vintage gentleman logo a grinning dog wearing a profe 6(1)
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SDXL 10 Vintage gentleman logo a grinning dog wearing a profe 4(1)
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SDXL 10 Vintage gentleman logo a grinning dog wearing a profe 5
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My only son, Jason, was in college when he died in a drowning accident. Sometime after that a family came to my door with their young son, around 9 or 10. I had never met them before.

They said they wanted to talk to me about Jason. We sat in the living room with some refreshments. The father told me the story: Jason had met the family at an event in our small town a couple of years before and had befriended the young boy.

They bonded over baseball. Jason explained that he had an extensive baseball card collection and offered to show it to him.

The boy lit up at the offer and sometime later they parted. Sitting in my living room, the boy’s father told me he had never expected to see Jason again, but one day he showed up at their house with several notebooks of baseball cards and the boy and my son spent a couple of hours with their heads together in a blissful state.

The father, in tears, told me he had never before seen a young man who exhibited such an outpouring of generosity that way towards his boy. The family wanted me to know what a fine son I had.

Jason had never mentioned that he kept a promise to a young boy. But there was that summer day when Jason came charging into the house with nary a word, ran up the stairs, ran down again with his arms filled with baseball card notebooks. That had to be the day.

IfThenElse: The Husband’s Companion

Written in response to: Start or end your story with a character making a cup of tea for themself or someone else.

Tabin Brooks

The kettle hissed and sang furiously on the stovetop, boiling over with the same frustration Harold felt at his husband.”How dare you – and without even asking me first!””I thought you’d like the idea,” said Marcus. “You’re in the industry after all!””And as part of the industry, it’s a big deal to just order a Companion from IfThenElse. Don’t you understand what you’ve done?” screeched Harold.Marcus looked confused and hurt. “But you’re working on them. Wouldn’t you want to have one at home that you can test drive?”Harold groaned dramatically and threw his hands over his face. “It’s not as simple as that, Marcus. They’re just like us. You can’t tell the difference. You’ve invited a stranger to live with us – indefinitely. You can’t just adopt and abandon. Did you even read the fine print?”Marcus frowned. “Now listen here. Of course I read the fine print. I got it as a gift for you.”“Them. Not it. Oh God, we’re going to have to get you up to speed before they get here,” said Harold. “When are they due to arrive?”

“I organised for tonight. I thought you’d be pleased.” Marcus said in a deeply hurt tone, but Harold was still too angry to soften his own tone.

“I can’t believe you’d take such a step without even consulting me first. The Companions are unique to each person’s needs – what on earth did you say our needs were? I’m not having my workplace gossiping about it. I just hope you didn’t pick something stupid.” The acrid venom dripped off Harold’s tongue as he criticised his husband. “And for God’s sake, get that bloody kettle!”

Marcus rose to take the kettle off the stove, but as he did so, he turned back to Harold, eyes flashing, fingers raised in aggressive air quotes. “Of course I didn’t put ‘anything stupid’ in. You and your precious reputation. You leave me at home all day to keep the house for you, you’re always out creating these Companions and then you yell at me when I’m proud of your work and willing to invite one into our home. Maybe I should have made the need fulfilment ’emotional punching bag’ – that would really get them talking!”

Harold stopped for a moment, wanting to continue the argument but sensing that he had pushed Marcus too far. Marcus continued. “For your information, I simply put in domestic companionship and help. It would be nice to have some company while you’re out at work all day. What is there to be angry about?”

Harold fumed silently for a moment until their argument was interrupted by a ring at the doorbell. Harold groaned and sighed, mentally pulling himself together, as Marcus went to open the door.

“Honey, it’s our delivery!” called Marcus back into the house from the door, a fake cheerfulness belying the heat the two had just exchanged. Harold took a deep breath and followed him to the door.

The two delivery drivers stood at the door, with a lithe young man between them. From experience, Harold knew this was their new companion, though there were no wires or cables to give it away. Each one was modelled after the humans they worked with, the only telltale sign the lack of flaws on their artificial skin. Even their touch was warm and lifelike, which Harold briefly shuddered at as their new companion shook his hand.

“Hello, my name is Dan. I’m your new companion. These are my escorts, James and Lawrence.” said the new Companion.

The two husbands looked at each other as if to say the discussion was not over. The man identified as James stepped forward.

“Good evening sirs, may I present Dan, our latest model of The Companion. Dan has all the capabilities a human has, with a digital brain. He has grafted skin and hair, and is programmed with his own personality, to give you an extra sense of realness,” said James. Harold, who had been working on this model in the back end of the company, cringed, inwardly thinking of the feedback he would give on the introduction script on Monday.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Dan, please, come in. James, Lawrence, I don’t think we’ll need your assistance. I’m very familiar with Dan’s model line and I’m happy to take responsibility from here,” said Harold through barely gritted teeth. He could feel his palms beginning to sweat and the fury rising up inside him again.

Marcus, sensing Harold’s frustration, smoothly took over the conversation with James and Lawrence. “Yes, thank-you – I’m sure Harold will be able to take it from here. He’s been working on this line for the last few months, so we know who to contact if we need any assistance.”

The two men were rushed out the door, Marcus profusely thanking them for their assistance. Dan looked at the two husbands with visible confusion.

“Why did you not want the induction? Am I safe here?” asked Dan.

Harold felt a cold wash of memory flow over him. The “Am I safe” routine was there for a reason. He took a deep breath and answered. “Dan, you are safe here. The tension you’re picking up on -” and with this he checked to see that the door had closed firmly behind the two delivery drivers. “The tension is simply because my husband and I were having an argument before you arrived. There is nothing to fear here, however you may have to bear with us while we resolve the tension.”

The initial anger and fury that had fuelled Harold’s initial outburst was subsiding as the cold chill of responsibility settled over him. He of all people knew what it meant to have invited a companion into their home. Suddenly a flash of jealousy rose within him. He took a few more deep breaths as Marcus came to stand beside him.

“I see,” said Dan. “Would you like me to call you Marcus and Harold, or something else?”

It was a standard set of questions, one that Harold’s team had had very little to do with. His role had been in programming the mental health and sanity subroutines. They were now at version three of the Companion models, and most of the major kinks had been ironed out. The early models had been prone to depression when left at home or expected to do many hours of work, and this created unpredictable effects in their behaviour, such as emotional outbursts. Ultimately, Harold knew that appreciation and recognition were the best ways to prevent relapses of disorder in the Companions.

“Just Marcus and Harold is fine. Or you can call us friends,” said Harold carefully.

“Would you – I mean can you – would you like a cup of tea?” asked Marcus

“A cup of tea would be lovely, my friends,” said Dan.

“I’ll go put the kettle on,” said Harold.

Working with a bunch of ER Docs I have to say, maybe, but no.

ER Docs really have to be jacks of all trades, masters at none. Not quite true (since emergency/trauma medicine is a trade all its own) but close enough.

They need to know enough to keep you alive until you can be discharged or moved on to the next service.

Let’s say you come into the ER with severe trauma to an arm. They’ll be able to stop the bleeding, possibly make sure that you don’t lose the limb, etc. If there’s a minor dislocation, they might be able to relocated it. But, if you need vascular surgery, they’ll send you off to a specialist.

You mention specifically private practice and clinics. Again, it would depend on their focus.

If I’m dying of cancer, I want a trained oncologist. If I’ve got seizures, I want a specialist to try to control the problem. But if I’m in a trauma, even if caused by the others, I want an ER doc.

As one of my favorite attendings has said (and I’ve repeated here) Specialists play to win. ER Docs play not to lose. Very different focus. And tie this to what IS said above, Specialist play to win in their specialty. They’re not even in the game outside their specialty. An ER Doc, plays not to lose in every specialty. Or close to it.

That said, considering I’m heading to PA school,. my focus will be emergency medicine because for me, that’s where it’s at.

A Mid-Life Crisis – 3 – Man’s opinion

The mid-life crisis is often used as joke. Particularly when men are involved. It used to be considered to be a uniquely male thing, but in the past decades it’s become more inclusive, but for now let’s deal with the classic and still most common form: the guy in his 40’s and 50’s

Here are a few things to understand about the mid-life crisis. The first thing to understand is that someone is in crisis. It’s not a joke. They’re suffering. The rates of suicide go up. It’s no fun.

It’s often portrayed as “Guy doesn’t want to admit he’s getting older and act his age.” That’s not really a fair description. Here’s the thing. Men are put under a lot of pressure, particularly in their 20’s and 30’s.

Ladies have traditionally had to deal with being compared to this.

Unrealistic body image, attainable only by a few. Not fair. I get that.

Here’s what men find themselves compared to.

No matter how hard you work, you’ll probably never be as buff as the first guy (who apparently died as a result of hit attempts to get buffer[1]), successful as the second guy (Who’s clearly made moral compromises to be so successful), as famous as the next guy, or as well hung as the last guy (and yes, women will compare and comment. If not to you, then to other guys about you. I know. I’ve heard the comments).

With that kind of pressure, your only hope is to pick one or two and focus on that (obviously the last one you don’t have that much control over), but the pressures will invariably mount about the other things. I didn’t even add the pressures you get about finding a girlfriend, getting married, having kids. Those are by far the largest, and the ones that most men feel the strongest (both internally and externally).

Then you hit your 40’s and your youth is waning, and you come to a realization. You didn’t actually have a youth. You were so busy trying to meet the demands of the pressure on you that missed it entirely. You’re not trying to recapture your lost youth. You’re trying to have some tiny taste of what youth is supposed to be. And it’s an uphill battle because you’re not young, and people are laughing at you, and the nature of youth has changed, and you don’t really know how many years you have left.

This is worst with the high achievers and prodigies. They’re the ones that everyone was praising when they were young, and encouraging to keep focusing on non-youth activities. They worked long days trying to achieve something, only to discover that everybody becomes a middle-aged guy who’s taken for granted. And they’re definitely not supposed to be having fun.

Think about it. Think of any activity someone might do purely for fun: having sex, motorcycles, buying a boat to go sailing, playing video games, D&D… the list goes on. Now post a picture of a middle aged guy doing it on social media. Someone is going to make a comment that uses the words “man-child” or “not acting his age.” Middle-aged men are treated like the supporting characters in everyone else’s life. We’re not allowed to be having our own adventures, making or own fun, or doing anything that is for us.

Is it any wonder that the highest rates of suicide are among middle aged men? Higher than the teen-aged girls that get all the attention. What a joke they are. Let’s all have a laugh.

[1] Minor correction: He had an injury that put him into “unbuff” status, and then apparently died is his attempts to regain it.

After Japan invaded Taiwan, it carried out massacres and enforced assimilation education.

In 1895, Taiwan’s population was no less than 3.2 million, but by 1896, it had dropped to just 2.57 million.

That means, in just one year, 700,000 Taiwanese people were massacred.

The image above depicts Japan’s brutal massacre in Taiwan.

The will to resist vanished completely in the face of massacres targeting civilians, followed by over 50 years of assimilation education.

This led Taiwan to develop a peculiar “fondness” for Japan.

This is actually quite understandable. For example, in Mongolia, Stalin brutally massacred any Mongolian population related to China, executing them in large groups.

Yet today, Mongolia is extremely anti-China.

This is a similar case.

“Where Is The GOLD?” – Elon Musk & Trump Visit Fort Knox

Never.

In fact, the Trumpie Tariff Tantrums have regressed the attempts to bring manufacturing back to the US.

More of 47 keeping his campaign promises to reverse Biden Era programs. See, he can keep a promise.

Even if businesses felt “safe” enough to invest in refurbishing the large number of empty/abandoned factories in the US, it would still take years to accomplish.

Yeah, there are a ton of empty factories all over the US in various stages of disrepair. My area has several that could be refurbished, but are no where close to being able to jump into production.

Hell, thanks to the tariff tantrums, the few that were being looked at for refurbishment to bring manufacturing back under Biden, have reversed course. Now no one is looking to do anything about those abandoned properties other than maybe tear them down. But only if there is any profit to be made in tearing them down.

Ironically, one of the local factories that geared up and started under Biden, for battery production for EVs and other tech needs just laid off some people. The reversal of Biden programs has that factory debating its ability to function under the tariffs. Thanks 47!

The economy of any country is global now. No one country is 100% “self sufficient”. They all rely on either raw materials from another country, labor from another country, manufacturing from another country, tech from another country, or financial investment from another county. America’s economy relies on all of those.

America lacks the raw materials, manufacturing ability, labor force, tech, and financial ability to become 100% self sufficient on the scale needed to keep the population housed, fed, medically cared for, or functional.

The Greatest Of All Great Men

Written in response to: Write a story in which someone time-travels 25 years or more into the past.

W B

He clasped the lever and dragged it down. A cacophonous burst of energy and the machine exploded into life. Metallic fibres hummed with possibility as Charles Rothstein climbed into the capsule and unfurled his scribbled notes:‘ED-B: +56%, HVRT: +44%, SPU: +43%, EVT: +40%, GU: +35%’ 

Of course, travelling back 25 days to invest in profitable shares wasn’t the most creative use of time travel, but he had to test the contraption somehow. Besides, boosting his net worth by a cool $178bn wouldn’t hurt. The divorce had been crippling but once again he was ready assault the summit of the Forbes list. From there, endless possibilities…

 

With a childlike zeal, he entered the numbers and took one last look around the room. Life would never be the same. The world would never be the same. If only Cassie had understood how important this work was…. No, best not go there. 

The contraption vibrated and the room shook. “Preparing for: minus 25 years,” the AI announced. Charles leaned back in his chair and prepared to pop back into the past. Except…  25 years? Years!? Before he could even process the mistake, the machine swallowed him up in a ball of cosmic light. Shit

 

He reappeared in the year 2000. In truth the basement hadn’t changed much. It was tempting to get up and look around, but Charles had read enough science fiction to know it wasn’t prudent. A flap of a butterfly’s wing etcetera….

 

“What the fuck?” Charles spun round to be confronted by a large, gangly youth in a sleeveless neon hoodie and three-quarter jeans. Neither spoke. The young man had dropped his cereal in shock and a stream of milk was now meandering towards Charles’ favourite slippers. Shit

 

He’d imagined this scenario many times, but the reality was far more daunting. Still, he took a deep breath, climbed out the capsule and began intruding himself to… himself. He kept it brief, including only the highlights: founding QuantAI, winning Times’ Person of the Year, and eventually solving time travel, among other things.

 

As he reeled off his achievements, Charles realised just how much he’d accomplished this past 20 years. Seeing the younger man’s eyes widen was especially gratifying, as was the strange expression on his face once the monologue was over – somewhere between curiosity and awe. I truly am the greatest of all great men.

 

—————————————————————-

 

Charlie stared incredulously at the man before him. Why do I look so old? The man’s skin was pasty and grey, in sharp contrast to his hair which was dyed jet black. At 48 years, he resembled a cadaver in a wig. As he spoke, spittle flew from thin, pink lips and his bony, white hands twitched excitedly. His electric blue eyes were alight with manic energy yet behind them lay a queer emptiness.

 

Gradually and then suddenly, Charlie realised this was actually happening. Initially, he thought there might’ve been something in the joint he’d been smoking but no. This was, unmistakably, himself. The older man was clearly very proud of his life story, so Charlie listened politely as the words washed over him.

 

“Anyway, that’s us,” the older man’s left eye seemed to spasm briefly. Is he trying to wink at me? “I assume you have plenty of questions?”

 

Charlie was stumped. Of course, he knew what he wanted to ask but he was far too afraid of the answer. Still, he could ask anything. Endless possibilities…

 

“How’re Leeds doing?”

 

“Top of the league.”

 

“Top of the Prem!” Charlie beamed.

 

“No, the Championship.” Shit.

 

“What else…. Kanye’s still our favourite artist, right?”

 

“Ah now that’s complicated.” For some reason the older man glanced at the Star of David hanging above the doorway. “Just enjoy the music while you can.”

 

“Okay, sounds mysterious,” mused Charlie. Time to think bigger.

 

“Have we made it to Mars yet?”

 

“Sadly not. I have a friend across the pond who’s working on it….  though he seems a bit distracted right now”

 

“Sure, sure…” Should I ask the question? No, no it’ll just ruin things. “How about the environment? Have we made any progress there?”

 

The older man snorted. “Not quite…  although we can’t use plastic straws anymore.”

 

Charlie didn’t know what to make of that. “What have they done to sort out global warming?”

 

He shook his head, “Very little…”

 

“But surely, with Al Gore coming into the Whitehouse once the recount’s finished…”

 

The older man laughed. “Actually, the Supreme Court…  never mind.” He stared pensively into Charlie’s eyes and for the first time he seemed human. “I forgot how idealistic we used to be…”

 

He tore his eyes away from those of his former self. “Anyway, I should get going. You have a big future ahead of you mate,” he finished, somewhat sadly, and turned away. Suddenly Charlie felt guilty. Clearly the older man wanted him to show an interest in his life; the businesses he’d founded, the concepts he’d realised, the accolades he’d achieved.

 

But, truthfully, Charlie didn’t care. No doubt he would in time, the man before him was proof of that. Now, though, there was only one question he wanted to ask. For the first time since the old man from the future appeared in his living room, Charlie was nervous.

 

“One last thing,” he began tentatively. “As you know…  as you’ll remember…  I met this girl last year and we’ve been dating ever since…” the words came tumbling out before he could stop them. He recalled the awkward first meeting outside the College Master’s office, the first kiss punctuated with fits of laughter as they stumbled through torrential rain, the trip to Paris where they missed the reservation and spent all night eating ice cream beneath the Eiffel Tower.

 

When the older man turned around, he seemed smaller. Shrunken. The empty, electric blue eyes now glistening with tears. Oblivious, Charlie continued to burble about the love of his life.

 

“Anyway, I just want to know…  well…  please, please, please tell me we’re married to Cassie.”

It was in the wee hours of the morning that I was called to the Operating Room to assist in an urgent Cesarean section. I was a medical student and of course was thrilled to be invited to join the team, however I was a bit puzzled; “Why on earth would they want me to assist?” Obstetrics (OB) was only my second clinical rotation and I was very green and new to the team. This was to be my first C-Section. I quickly discovered why I, the lowly medical student, was invited: The baby had deformities that were inconsistent with life and had ZERO chance of long-term survival, so what harm could the student do?

While we were scrubbing (our hands) the senior resident quickly gave me the heartbreaking “low-down” on the patient: 14 year old, incest victim, didn’t know she was pregnant until she was transported by EMS to the hospital with severe abdominal pain. An ultrasound had determined that a cluster of very rare fetal anomalies were present. The baby, at an estimated 28 weeks gestational age had a Cloverleaf Skull malformation associated with severe facial, skull, skeletal anomalies and profound mental retardation, all inconsistent with life. Despite profound prematurity, the baby’s head was so grotesquely enlarged and misshapen that it would not be able to pass through the birth canal (vagina).

So there we were; with an awake patient, under spinal anesthesia, delivering via C-section, a baby doomed to die, to a first time mother, still child herself, who was thrilled by the idea of becoming a mother and in complete denial about the reality of what she was soon to be confronted with. For me, it was surreal to say the least.

I, with a lot of guidance, performed the Cesarean-Section. I eased the warm, liquid, squiggly, slippery, living being from it’s former home, the uterus. This living being for all intents and purposes appeared to be an alien species, with her hugely malformed cranium and her large, lidless eyes, which were a vivid, hypnotic blue like the Mediterranean Sea. They were the most beautiful, mesmerizing and tragic thing I’d ever seen. She didn’t enter the world with an angry bellow as I later learned to expect from healthy newborns, no, she merely uttered a feeble croak, a“MEEP” and seemed to peer knowingly at me. I almost dropped her. I did not expect Life, as transient or tenuous as it may be!

I passed the infant off to the baby nurse who expertly swaddled her in such a way that the misshapen head, fingers and toes would be less obvious. Moments later, the bundle was deposited into the waiting arms of her mother. While we were closing the surgical wounds, I asked the new Mother what she would name her. She bravely acknowledged that the baby would not live long, and graciously, unsullied by the horrors of her young life, proclaimed,“Angel, ANGEL is her name.”

Wild Alaska Salmon Teriyaki Bowl

This flavorful bowl recipe features bright ingredients and cooked wild Alaska salmon and is sure to be a family favorite.

Wild Alaska Salmon Teriyaki Bowl recipe

Ingredients

Bowl

  • 1/2 cup sushi rice
  • 2 tablespoons rice vinegar
  • 2 wild Alaska salmon fillets
  • 1 avocado
  • 1/2 cucumber
  • 1/2 mango
  • 8 radishes
  • 1 carrot
  • 1 teaspoon sesame seeds

Sauce

  • 2 tablespoons sesame oil
  • 2 tablespoons teriyaki sauce
  • 2 tablespoons rice vinegar

[_includes/center-recipes-no-ads.html]

Instructions

Bowl

  1. Cook sushi rice according to package directions.
  2. Cut the Alaska salmon into bite-size pieces.
  3. Heat olive oil in a pan over medium-high heat. Add the salmon and sear on all sides until golden-brown color and cooked throughout – about 6 to 8 minutes.
  4. Dice avocado, cucumber and mango.
  5. Slice carrot and radish.

Sauce

  1. Whisk together the sesame oil, teriyaki sauce and rice vinegar.

Assembly

  1. Arrange the Alaska salmon bowl by mixing the rice with the rice vinegar and add it to the bowl.
  2. Add the carrot, cucumber, mango, avocado, radishes and finally the wild Alaska salmon.
  3. Top with the sauce and sesame seeds.

The USA and most western nations were happily providing Japan, oil, iron and explosives to make weapons. The USA in particular was supplying them all the way up to 1941 until Pearl harbor.

China fought alone from 1931, Japan captured the ports meaning China didn’t get much supply from the outside at all. Weapons were in such short supply Chinese soldiers had to use swords and farming tools to fight the Japanese.

Westerners love the old the USA saved China from Japan.

No, the Imperial Japanese army was about 6 million strong in WW2.

2.5 million of those were in China. A further 2.5 million were on the home islands of Japan meaning the Americans faced at most 1 million Japanese.

It’s almost exactly the the USA saved the USSR! Without lend lease blah blah.

Had Japan note eaten two nuclear bombs WW2 would have lasted longer but eventually China would have worn down the Japanese.

There’s an old unfunny joke about it

The two opposing armies have met in a big battle. Three hundred thousand Chinese die, but just 50,000 Japanese. Then another big battle takes place. There, 250,000 more Chinese die, and 75,000 Japanese. Pretty soon, the joke goes, “no more Japanese.” The seemingly inexhaustible demographic reserves of China,

“Trump Just DESTROYED The Entire Economy” – Richard Wolff’s Terrifying Message

The Mysterious Drapery Debacle

As life moves forward, life can get complicated and busy if you are not careful.

I’ve got about 25 on-going projects that I cycle though my day, and believe me, some are gonna have to be phased out. Yuppur.

But, for now, I am as happy as a clam being so busy.

I’ve thrown in some of my MM AI works and I am pretty darn happy how they all turned out. Please tell me what you think. Anyways… be good you all.

Today…

CHINA SCARES WARPIGS SH*TLESS

Great rant.

Obviously Trump and his team have an objective, which is to balance out the flow of goods (but not services). But like the mini-dictators that capitalist owners are, they do not have the competence to know how to implement this as part of a long term project. Rather, they are too spoiled and have always been able to dictate the result to others, letting their workers figure it out lest they are fired on a whim. This is why business people are terrible at governance, because they have no experience whatsoever at running a state— where the people they manage are not fungible numbers on a balance sheet, but actual people with the capacity to commit revenge or violence.

A couple years back I posited that we felt like the late Soviet era. I remember quite a few people in the comments calling this hyperbole. I wonder where they are now, seeing this from the White House:

If I had to pin a date as a historian for the official end of the US unipolar moment, I think “Liberation Day” is a top candidate. We aren’t at Soviet collapse, but we are probably at a severe regression of the US empire and all of the spoils that has yielded us Americans up until now.

The Trump group may have a few insights that they are capable of seeing that the neoliberal/neoconservative consensus actively blinds themselves from, but in the end they are deeply incompetent, much like the late Soviet state. Awareness is not the same as capacity. This is why the Muskian cuts have been regressive towards the very aims of DOGE and the WH (sans the virtue signaling of “ridding the government of DEI”); it is also why Trump is no longer interested in keeping Musk on board. And it is why the WH staffers are incapable of understanding a basic formula that anyone in secondary school should be capable of interpreting.

Kissinger, ever prescient, was right.

“I think Trump may be one of those figures in history who appears from time to time to mark the end of an era and to force it to give up its pretences. It doesn’t necessarily mean that he knows this, or that he is considering any great alternative. It could just be an accident.”

There are no statesmen in the Trump admin who come close to Kissinger’s competence. They may have some shreds of his awareness, but I do not see them being capable of any lasting impact, other than bringing down the entire system. They are welcome to prove me wrong.

I am not holding my breath.


And for those who don’t understand what I mean by American empire, I mean this:

They are all vassal states. And the extent to which they have been vassalized has been exposed for the world to see with Liberation Day. If they have sovereignty, they will have options. If they are vassals, they will suffer what their liege dictates to them, or they will overthrow him.

Good luck overthrowing someone you wholly depend on for defense.


Addendum:

This is what incompetence looks like.

Lets talk about Snow White..,

we hope you like them too.


A hedge that took 10 years to build!

2. What a wonderful piece!

3. An 8-ton killer whale jumps 15 feet out of the water.

4. This is a pencil sculpture of a train by artist Cindy Chin.

5. The Aurora Borealis in Alaska. It’s magical.

6. It’s just thrilling.

7. Wooden cottage in the Tatra Mountains, Poland. Incredible!

8. It’s a pretty amazing view.

9. I’m speechless. I’m speechless.

10. Pretty cool couple, right?

11. Somewhere in Hawaii

12. This is one of the best photos on the internet.

13. Quite a thrilling view.

14. My current wallpaper.

15. Creativity at its finest

16. People fleeing wildfires in Malibu.

17. A work that appeals to people to preserve trees

18. A plane flying over the Pyramids of Giza.

19. Somewhere in the mountains of India.

20. A shot after many, many tries. Amazing!

21. Don’t you want to watch it again and again?

22. Icelandic night sky.

23. Boring street corners boost creativity

24. An amazing night view I saw somewhere in Italy. It took my breath away.

25. Just amazing and mind blowing

26. This is the legendary child of the 1980s.

27. Somewhere in Singapore Inspired creativity.

28. Chimpanzee fingers and human fingers. They’re identical in almost every respect.

29. Cliffs of Moher, Ireland. So tranquil and magnificent.

I hope you liked it, and thanks for scrolling!

Scott Taylor

The night the world ended began with an eerie silence, broken only by the occasional drip of water and the distant chirp of a cricket. As the internet went down, an unnerving silence replaced the hiss of static from my ham radio. Then, a chilling, inhuman voice whispered nearby.

I ignored the media’s pre-war frenzy and the public’s stockpiling until now. My ham radio was my sanity’s anchor—until a night of terrifying sounds replaced the static.

My desire to flee the chaos likely spread to other global radio operators whom I contacted via radio. I didn’t know that my voice, carried by the invisible tendrils of electromagnetic waves, somehow reached the ears of beings far beyond this planet.

Fresh from the shower, I had one more contact to make with a friend down under. Little did I know that the contact that was about to happen would be ‘first contact.’

Midnight passed on the 13th. Yes, it is a cliche, but it was a Friday the 13th, and without warning, things stopped their usual course. The world seemed to pause, the air icy, the night silent except for the faint hum of my ham radio cutting through the darkness.

A nightmare sound, like a frog’s death rattle, startled me. I turned around to see them. Two gray lizard-like creatures with tentacles stared at me, their cold, reptilian eyes unnerving. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat as my breath hitched in my throat.

Like chips of cold obsidian, their eyes bored into me, unblinking and unreadable, sending a shiver down my spine. I wanted to scream, to run, but my legs were heavy, unresponsive, and rooted to the spot. When one of them spoke, the gravelly scrape of its voice against metal sent a jolt through me, threatening my sanity.

I couldn’t sit; my body wouldn’t cooperate. My legs gave way, and I missed the chair. I hit the floor hard, jarring my teeth and spine. The chair scooted away from me, hitting the wall with a thud, highlighting my awkward sprawl.

Still damp from the shower, my flimsy robe tore loose from the fall. I was surprised by the creatures’ stares as they attempted to figure out what happened.

Without warning, they spoke. The words they used were familiar, but the cadence, the rhythm, was strange. They knew my language. “Is that an earth custom?” One of them asked, their eyes narrowing in a way that suggested they were studying me, sizing me up for some unknowable purpose. Their voices were low and gravelly as if they were constantly on the verge of losing their breath, yet their words showed undeniable intelligence.

I shook my head as I tried to cover myself. “I wasn’t expecting anyone. Why are you here?” I managed to get out.

Their heads tilted, eyes reflecting my terror and disbelief at my question. The scene before us seemed to blur the line between stroke-induced delusion, dream, and impossible reality. I tried to keep from screaming or peeing myself, my heart pounding like a drumbeat. I worked hard to wrap my head around the events.

“We have listened to your broadcasts,” the taller one said, its forked tongue flicking the air. “You speak of peace, of hope, when your kind clamors for war. You understand what is at stake. That is why we chose you.”

“Chose me? Chose me for what?”

Fastening my robe, I rose, recognizing this as reality and not some twist of fate from tainted food.

“One of your nations just launched a barrage of powerful weapons toward this place,” the creature hissed. “Your nation has responded in kind. Your world and its people will cease to exist in just a few moments. We believe you are the one to stop this from happening.” They paused as if to let the gravity of their words sink in. “In nine of your earth minutes, we need to remove you from this world and take you back in time so you can change the past.”

My heart leaped into my throat, and I felt sweat beading on my forehead. “Pack what you think you might need to convince them that the future must be changed in one small bag before the missiles arrive.”

My eyes widened in shock and disbelief. I saw a wrist device, which I guessed was a clock. I swore as I stood. Two aliens trailed behind me as I flew past a mirror, catching my near-naked reflection. The surreal scene prompted nervous laughter.

I could feel the cold floor on my feet. My knees ground into the carpet as I reached under the bed for my old bag I used in the military. I felt the cool breeze of the open window behind me, and I wanted to dress. I didn’t have time.

I started packing my bag: a fresh change of clothes, my trusty laptop, and all sorts of electronic gadgets. And, just in case, I grabbed some old newspapers that were yellowing at the edges, their pages filled with stories of a world gone haywire. The aliens stared, their cold, unblinking eyes fixated on my every move as I sprinted around the house, stuffing my bag to the brim.

Air raid sirens, designed to warn of an impending storm, wailed in the distance as if mocking my desperate scramble to survive. I stared back at the two silent invaders, their tentacles flicking impatiently. “We’ve got to leave now!” the shorter one hissed, his voice barely above a whisper.

Without warning, the taller of the two beings reached for the bulging sack of treasures that held my most important belongings while its slender partner tightened its cold, squirming tentacle around my sweaty, nervous hand.

The aliens pressed buttons, and the room shattered like glass. Colors swirled, time folded in on itself, and my body felt like it was being pulled apart and stitched back together. Once the chaos subsided, I found myself in a bed redolent of dust and childhood recollections, gazing at legs that now belonged to a boy, not a man.

Here I was, wide awake and fully aware of my terrifying dreams, back in bed. The bed I had as a child, complete with Pookie Bear by the pillow.

A sudden gasp escaped my throat as the aliens exchanged a glance, then let out an eerie, synchronized chuckle – a sound that seemed more like a high-pitched cackle, as if the very idea of my discomfort amused them to no end. One of them – the taller one, its head a twisted mass of tentacles and glistening eyeballs stared at me. Then, it spoke with an unsettling, lilting tone that seemed to drip with both malevolence and glee. “We have had the pleasure of observing yet another timeline. If you cannot sway the minds of your world leaders, this particular timeline shall vanish, and your entire species will be no more.”

If that was a pep talk, it was the worst one ever said.

The creature’s words hit me like a physical blow, sending a shiver of pure dread through me. I gasped for breath, my chest constricted by the heavy weight of the unexpected responsibility. My heart pounded in my ears. Then, as suddenly as they had arrived, the two beings dissolved into the surrounding air, their chilling aura and the faint scent of ozone disappearing as quickly as they came.

“Holy Cow!”

My normally raspy voice was gone. The years of smoking hadn’t occurred, and my voice was several octaves higher, reminding me of that old show on TV with a kid nicknamed Beaver.

As the echoes of their final words lingered in the room, I struggled to sit up, my heart still pounding furiously as I stared at the remnants of my adult life piled at the foot of the bed. Instead of books, a high-end sound system, medals from different deployments, and a media room was a small bedroom with shelves holding models I had assembled.

I never knew what had happened with all these things, as they were gone when I returned home from my first tour in the Middle East. My beloved model rockets, dusty stacks of well-worn books, and a bulky old typewriter that had once seemed like the very pinnacle of modern technology were all there. Instantly, my mind raced to figure out how to explain the bizarre events that brought me back to this half-forgotten room, holding humanity’s survival key in my trembling hands.

My smartphone was worthless because of the lack of space technology and cell towers. My laptop contained a treasure of information, books from the future, and software that had yet to be invented. There was also music from people who were not yet living. Since it had not been invented, I realized that it had to stay hidden.

The other gadgets had glowing components and strange symbols, showcasing impossible technology. Today, the pinnacle of existing technology was the tube-type radio, its warm glow illuminating the room, and the black-and-white television, with its limited channels offering a grainy but captivating picture.

My first shortwave set, also created with tubes, was on my desk. How long had the aliens been listening to me? I wondered.

Had the aliens warned me and given me more time to prepare, I would have thought this through more carefully.

The change of clothes I brought hung on me, stiff and starched, flapping in the breeze like a scarecrow’s rags. Don’t even bother with underwear, pants, and the like. Nothing was appropriate. The horrifying reality hit me as I stared at my reflection in the mirror. While exploring my childhood dresser, I discovered sufficient clothing to look presentable while walking around my old home.

Pulling memories from my brain, I dressed and went downstairs to find my mother. My dead mother was very much alive and making breakfast.

I hadn’t cried since my wife passed from cancer; now, here at the breakfast table in 1962, my cheeks were damp. My mother didn’t know what was wrong with me as I hugged her, my face landing on her belly. She was pregnant with my little brother.

I tried to wrap my mind around the implications of this strange transformation. Could it be some cruel joke? A hallucination induced by PTSD from my days in the special forces. Or perhaps it was the work of some malevolent force that sought to play with my mind.

My life was a contradiction. Though my mind was that of a 53-year-old veteran of two wars, I was trapped in a child’s body.

She kissed my forehead, making sure I didn’t have a temperature. “Another bad dream?” she asked. I remembered the nightmares, and now I was living one. Nodding, I sat next to my little sister.

Finish your breakfast; you’ll be late for the bus.

Back in the bathroom, brushing my hair and teeth, I stared at myself in the mirror. As I stood there, a child once more, I realized something: it wasn’t just about stopping the war. It was about reminding humanity of what it could be—what it had to be. For all our flaws, we deserved a chance to prove we could rise above them.

While being careful about my words, the memory of Armageddon was still fresh in my mind. It dawned on me that nobody would listen to a seven-year-old boy. My bag’s contents would bewilder locals, possibly attracting military attention. Everything I brought with me needed to be stashed in my secret access to the attic.

For now, I needed to shed the anxieties of adulthood—the crushing weight of responsibilities and looming deadlines—and retreat into the more straightforward, innocent world of a carefree seven-year-old, where scraped knees healed quickly and imagination reigned supreme. Drawing on my experiences, I needed to assume a different persona, a new identity. My goal was to achieve a position of power in the business world and to become a successful and influential businessman.

The fate of humanity had been thrust upon me. Why me? Was it solely due to my voice being transmitted via invisible tendrils or radio waves into the ether?

Like the butterfly effect, I needed to know what triggered the chain reaction that caused the launch of nuclear weapons. Since I was unaware of what was happening, I ignored the news. I didn’t know who did what.

The day started with a formal greeting to my teacher. A child acting like a mature adult clearly upset her, but the change in my understanding of all things academic was fun at first.

History changed once more as I suddenly became gifted and talented. On the desk was some unfinished homework: third-grade fractions. Most of them were wrong. I erred initially; I quickly became a math expert in this strange new world. My grades went from average to straight A’s. The teacher corrected me when I said something about 50 states, as there were only 49 at the time.

My childhood prodigy status propelled me to an Ivy League college, a law career, and a surprising foray into the political arena just two years shy of my 53rd birthday; it was a fast-paced journey.

My metamorphosis from killer to lawyer showcased the butterfly effect.

Making sure to keep my hobby of Amateur Radio, I knew that somewhere out there, my words were being heard outside our solar system.

History was about to repeat as I sat in my house beside the radio. This time, I prepared, anticipating a reunion with past guests.

Wearing more than an old robe, I waited for those guests. I had many questions for them. Who were they? Where did they come from? Were they part of the Black Knight Satellite that appears from time to time? Were they stationed on the dark side of the moon? Would the sirens ring out? Did I manage to stave off the annihilation of mankind? The minutes passed. Well, after 1AM, I took a deep breath. The emergency seemed to be over. I had succeeded.

When I found my old bag from that other timeline, I saw an alien device I had missed the first time.

I pushed the red button, and with a click, the device’s many lights flickered on, accompanied by a soft hum.

“Congratulations,” the voice boomed, “unlike most of your shortsighted race, you chose to use your considerable intellect for the betterment of all, not just yourself.”

As I stood there, holding the alien device, its soft hum a reminder of the impossible journey I had undertaken, I couldn’t help but reflect on the strange twists of fate that had brought me to this moment. The choices I made—the words I wrote, the lives I touched, and the painful lessons I carried with me—had rippled outward, changing the very fabric of history.

Somewhere, in the vast expanse of the cosmos, those two alien beings were watching, their cryptic smiles a silent acknowledgment of their faith in me. The weight of their words—“If you are unable to sway the minds of your world leaders, your species will be no more”—still echoed in my mind. But now, standing on the other side of history, I understood something fundamental: it wasn’t just about preventing annihilation. It was about proving that humanity could rise above its flaws and that even in the face of destruction, we could choose cooperation over chaos.

The burden of saving the world had shaped me, but the hope for a better future defined me. As the alien device dimmed and fell silent, I smiled, knowing I had done what they asked. The butterfly had flapped its wings, and this time, the storm never came.

As I put the alien device back in the old duffle bag, I noticed something I hadn’t before—a second button, smaller, blinking faintly. A warning? Or a promise? I didn’t press it. Not yet.

Tomi Lahren Gets DESTROYED By Andrew Wilson For Her Feminist Mindset | Pearl Daily

My wife’s grandmother was a Canadian citizen, but lived in the U.S. for many years and retired down there.

When she was about 90, she fell and broke her hip. It was determined that there was no value in giving someone that old a new hip, so they put a pin in it. She had a few weeks of home care and then that ran out. She still was unable to walk.

We went down, got her and brought her back to Canada. There was a waiting period before her provincial health care kicked in, so we bought private insurance to cover her until it started. I think it cost about $100. There was no medical questionnaire. We registered her for provincial health care. All they wanted was personal info and day of arrival in Canada to start the clock ticking for the waiting period. No medical questionnaire.

PS several years later, she fell again— on Christmas morning during an ice storm of all things. A four-wheel drive ambulance came out and took her to one of the bigger hospitals in the city. She had a whole new hip by 4:00 AM the next day— and keep in mind that, because of the ice storm, there were car accidents all over the area and the Emergency Room was chaos when we got there about 9:00 AM. And, as I said, this was Christmas morning so staffing was short!

Total bill: zero, zip, nada. Not even for the ambulance.

EDIT: I never mentioned that, after the new hip healed, she was still in a wheelchair, so the homecare system sent someone in every weekday to get her out of bed, make her breakfast and prepare a lunch for later. She was living in a suite in our basement, so we could look after her on weekends. No charge. She eventually had to go into a government-run nursing home. No charge for any of this.

Sir Whiskerton and the Great Curtain Caper: A Tale of Feline Philosophy and Barnyard Bravery


The Mysterious Drapery Debacle

The farm had barely shaken off the morning dew when chaos erupted in the barn. Not the usual chaos involving Rufus the Dog chasing his own tail (though that was happening simultaneously near the compost heap), but a far more sinister disturbance – someone had hung a curtain in the barn overnight.

Doris the Hen spotted it first, her dramatic gasp so loud it woke up Porkchop the Pig from his mid-morning mud nap. “CLUCKING HELL!” she squawked, flapping her wings at the offending fabric. “What fresh interior design horror is this?!”

“Horror!” echoed Harriet, tilting her head so sharply her comb flopped over one eye.

“Fresh!” added Lillian before executing her signature dramatic faint directly into a pile of loose hay.

Sir Whiskerton, who had been conducting his daily sunbeam inspection tour, paused mid-stride. His emerald eyes narrowed at the billowing red velvet curtain that had most certainly not been there yesterday. “How… theatrical,” he murmured, whiskers twitching.

Ditto, his ever-enthusiastic shadow, peered around Sir Whiskerton’s legs. “It’s… it’s so BIG,” the kitten whispered, his tiny paws kneading the ground nervously. “What if there’s something TERRIBLE behind it? Like… like a VACUUM CLEANER?!”

Sir Whiskerton’s tail flicked in amusement. “Ditto, my dear apprentice, there are three fundamental rules of feline existence: Climb every curtain, chase every sunbeam, and nap in every box.”

“But what if it’s DANGEROUS?” Ditto’s fur puffed up to twice its normal size.

Sir Whiskerton adjusted his monocle with a practiced paw. “Life without danger is like kibble without gravy – technically edible but deeply unsatisfying.”


The Great Investigation Begins

The barnyard quickly divided into factions regarding The Curtain Situation:

Team “Tear It Down” (led by Doris): “It’s probably hiding FOWL PLAY! I demand immediate demolition!”

Team “Ignore It” (led by Porkchop): “Could we discuss this after lunch? I think better when I’m digesting.”

Team “Dramatic Speculation” (led by Ferdinand the Duck): “What if it’s a PORTAL TO ANOTHER DIMENSION? Or worse – an AUDITION for ‘Dancing With the Ducks’?”

Sir Whiskerton sighed as the arguments escalated. Doris was now organizing the hens into a protest circle, clucking revolutionary songs. Ferdinand was warming up his vocal cords for what sounded suspiciously like a doom prophecy set to opera. And Ditto… poor Ditto was frozen in place, staring at the curtain like it might grow teeth.

“Enough!” Sir Whiskerton declared, leaping onto a hay bale. “This mystery requires a proper feline investigation.” He turned to Ditto. “Watch and learn, my hesitant apprentice.”

With the grace of a furry ninja, Sir Whiskerton scaled the curtain in three elegant bounds, his claws making satisfying thwick sounds against the fabric. At the top, he struck a pose that would make a Broadway star jealous. “The view from up here is magnifi—OH MY DOG THAT’S A LOT OF CATNIP.”

Doris gasped. “WHAT? WHAT IS IT?!”

Sir Whiskerton regained his composure. “Ahem. As I was saying, the perspective from— SWEET CATNIP IS THAT A SCRATCHING POST TOWER WITH INTEGRATED TREAT DISPENSER?!”

The barn erupted in chaos.


The Hilarious Revelation

What they discovered behind the curtain was neither vacuum cleaner nor dimensional portal, but something far more shocking: The farmer had installed a state-of-the-art “Kitty Adventure Zone” complete with:

  1. A 7-foot cat tree with built-in hammock
  2. An automated laser pointer system
  3. A treat conveyor belt labeled “Snack Express”
  4. And most baffling of all – a tiny working elevator operated by trained crickets

Doris squawked indignantly, “This is SPECIES DISCRIMINATION! Where’s the ‘Hen Happy Hut’? Where’s the ‘Pig Pamper Palace’?!”

Porkchop sniffed the catnip-stuffed pillows. “I mean… I could probably fit in that hammock…”

Ferdinand immediately claimed the highest perch for his “dressing room,” while the crickets operating the elevator went on strike demanding better working conditions.

Amidst the chaos, Ditto finally found his courage and scrambled up the curtain, landing awkwardly in a pile of catnip. “I DID IT!” he yowled, immediately becoming distracted by a laser dot. “BUT ALSO WHAT’S THAT SHINY THING?!”

Sir Whiskerton purred with satisfaction. “And that, my dear Ditto, is why we climb curtains. You never know when you’ll find a life-changing discovery… or at least free snacks.”


The Moral (With Extra Cat Hair)

As the farm animals negotiated shared usage of the Kitty Adventure Zone (the hens wanted the hammock for “group meditation,” Porkchop kept getting stuck in the tunnel, and Rufus somehow activated the treat conveyor belt with his nose), Sir Whiskerton delivered the episode’s wisdom:

“Life, my friends, is exactly like this mysterious curtain. It might seem intimidating at first glance. It might flap ominously in the breeze. It might even smell faintly of whatever questionable cologne the farmer was wearing yesterday. But unless you take the leap—unless you dig in your claws and climb—you’ll never discover the glorious cat towers waiting on the other side.”

Doris blinked. “That was… suspiciously profound for someone currently covered in catnip.”

Sir Whiskerton, now upside down in the hammock with all four paws in the air, responded: “I’m a cat of many layers. Like an onion. Or a particularly fluffy winter coat.”


The End.

Moral: Life is an adventure—don’t be afraid to explore (especially if there might be free snacks involved).

Best Lines:

  • “It’s probably more drama than a soap opera.” – Sir Whiskerton’s curtain prediction
  • “I’m not stuck, I’m… tactically reassessing the tunnel situation.” – Porkchop, definitely stuck
  • “MY PRECIOUS FEATHERS DESERVE ELEVATOR PRIVILEGES!” – Ferdinand, to the striking crickets

Post-Credit Scene:
The curtain gets repurposed as Bessie the Tie-Dye Cow’s new “artistic drapery,” which she immediately bedazzles with peace signs. The crickets unionize. And Ditto learns that while climbing curtains is excellent life advice, maybe don’t do it when the farmer’s grandmother is visiting with her prized lace collection. (RIP, Grandma’s doilies.)

He just has!!!!

China has just hit 84% on US imports

This means $ 290 of US made components will cost $ 534 when it hits China, gets assembled into a Laptop costing $ 1103 instead of $ 859 which will then cost $ 2541 in the US

So a Laptop originally costing $ 1,393 now costs $ 2,541

$ 2,541 for a Laptop

$ 2, 150 – $ 2,668 for an Iphone

$ 834 for a TCL 54″ television

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Imagine standing on the deck of an American aircraft carrier. It’s huge, over 1,000 feet long, three football fields. Everything from jets to drones is handled here by more than 5,000 sailors who live and work on the ship. More than 70 aircraft take off and land every day. Every 30 seconds they fill the air with the sound of engines. It’s non-stop action.

The U.S. Navy is the largest aircraft carrier operator in the world. These ships are not only big, they’re nuclear-powered and don’t need to refuel for 20 years. The USS Enterprise was the first nuclear-powered carrier and altered naval warfare forever. Since World War II, these ships have been engaged in every major conflict.

All the flight operations take place on the ‘island’ on the carrier. Commanders up there control everything. The carrier can resupply at sea and be gone for months at a time without having to go into port. Aircraft carriers are the ultimate military symbol. You can tell when times are serious because they’re in action.

Watch Psycho Dad With Al | Married With Children

I’ve dealt with homeless a lot. I still do in a volunteer capacity.

Some are mentally ill or addicted. I’m guessing about 20% from my experience.

The majority? Not paying attention. Made them homeless.

We have over 200 million adults in this country. 40% are living paycheck to paycheck. They are one paycheck away from disaster.

I ended up homeless at 20. Chalked it up to bad luck.

I ended up homeless again at 32. That wasn’t bad luck. That was me being stupid. Way too much debt. No savings. Really good pay. Just a complete asshole with money.

I talk with 3 or 4 homeless people a week on average. Always in a hospital setting. People mostly in their late 20s and 30s. They are hospitalized with hypothermia, pneumonia, a beating from someone.

No addiction. No mental illness. Just not paying attention. Here’s a typical story.

A young man and young woman living together. They’re doing ok. Living beyond their means though. Lots of credit card debt. High car payment. No savings.

Then that gf decides she likes another guy better and moves out. NBD. He will just get a room mate. Ads on Craigslist, Facebook. Nobody shows up.

His rent and bills are way over his income. He misses credit card payments to make rent and car payment. Now his credit is trashed. 450 credit score.

Then something simple like a badly sprained ankle causes him to miss a paycheck. Plus $800 doctor bill. Upfront. At mediemerge .

Now he’s behind on his rent. Then a speeding ticket. $150. Then the catalytic converter blows on his car. $1400. Misses rent again.

Now he’s homeless. Living in his car.

Bad credit. Bad reference from previous landlord.

Still working. Taking showers at the gym. He asked some coworkers if he could stay on their couch for awhile. They all have wife and kids and said no.

His friends are living with Mom and Dad. Can’t go there.

Laundry at the Laundromat. Showers at the gym. Eating take out all the time. Credit cards are hitting him with court judgements. Ex landlord too. He gets ordered by the court to pay those judgements. Garnishee on his paycheck.

Violates the court by missing payments. Now theres a warrant for his arrest. FCIO. Failure to comply with a court installed order. Jail. Car towed and impounded.

Now his car and job are gone.

Two years ago he was living with that girl in a nice apartment. Vacations all on the credit card. Hawaii. Jamaica. Two cruises. Life was grand. Two restaurant meals a a week. Good seats at concerts. All on the credit cards. He makes $1000 a week. $740 car payment for that pick up is no problem. Splitting $1800 rent with his GF is no problem.

Now he’s homeless. No car. No job.

I hear that story out of young women and young men all the times. Over and over. That’s basically what happened to me at 32.

We are all told to keep 3 to 6 months of expenses in an emergency account.

Not to live beyond our means.

To learn the difference between good debt and bad debt.

Nobody listens or pays attention.

You violate all three of those for long enough I 100% guarantee you will end up homeless.

I have to add this.

When we hear homeless? We think of the dirty stinky bum on the street.

Here is how the legal and medical community define homeless in this area.

You cannot provide proof of rent receipt, deed, mortgage payment or any form of proof that you provide housing for yourself. That’s homeless.

“I’m not homeless. My friend has been letting me live in his basement for free for six months “

Nope. You’re homeless. You do not provide housing for yourself.

You Think You Have Time

Written in response to: Write a story about someone who must fit their entire life in a single suitcase.

J Gro

You think you have time.Earth’s core grew 10 times its size in the past month. Scientists predicted, at this rate, humans had two months to evacuate the planet.They were wrong.“Hello?” It was 4 a.m. when the call came.

 

“Ms. Henderson, this is Rachel from NASA. Due to unforeseen circumstances, we’ve expeditated your evacuation to this afternoon at 2 p.m. Please head to your designated launch station at this time. Shuttles will not wait for delayed passengers.”

 

She wasn’t finished talking, but I stopped listening. My evacuation was supposed to be weeks away. I hadn’t considered packing. All I’d done was spend time with friends, get drunk, and have sex with people I’d never see again.

 

The new orders hit me like an asteroid. My old life was becoming extinct. What a waste. What a wasted life.

 

Tears came fast and heavy, uncontrollable. The weight was too much for my mental to bear. For a while I just stared at the ceiling, crying. If I’d only had a few more days, maybe I could’ve done something meaningful. Said a few goodbyes. Said a few hellos. Now, it was all over, and I had nothing to show for it.

 

I was told I’d need to fit my entire 45-year existence into a single suitcase. The thought of doing so felt like carrying a boulder up a hill. So, I’d put it off, just like everything else.

 

Now, I’d run out of time. Where to even begin? Coffee. I knew how to drink coffee. Start with something easy.

 

On the bed lay the government issued suitcase, not big enough to fit my clothes for a 3-day vacation. I imagined my entire life being condensed into Tetris blocks, neatly falling into the space provided in perfect unison. This made me laugh. My life didn’t work like that. This was impossible.

 

After two cups of coffee, I was tired of feeling sorry for myself. Throwing things left and right, I ripped through my belongings. Clothes would be provided for us at our new space station, so the thousands of dollars hanging in my closet were worth nothing now. Still, I considered how dreadful it would be to dress in a white jumpsuit every day. Not me. I couldn’t do that. These clothes were a part of me. These were memories. This was my personality on display.

 

“What do you think, Mr. Suitcase?” I asked to the inanimate object, “Just one sweater?”

 

A favorite black and white wool piece caught my eye, with fuzz so soft, you’d want it as a blanket. This would keep me warm on lonely nights and remind me of my old couch, a warm fire, and a good book. It went in.

 

Scanning my room, I realized how meaningless half of this stuff was. All my knick-knacks and chochkas, store-bought paintings and inspirational quotes, and the big TV that hung up on the wall. None of this meant anything to me. How much time and money had I wasted on all this? Did I own anything meaningful?

 

I dug through the drawers until my heart skipped a beat. An old photo, buried away at the bottom. My mother and me, smiling out on the beach a few years before she passed. After she died, I took it down from my dresser, too upset to look at it anymore. I miss her. We had a wonderful relationship.

 

For some time, I sat and remembered, staring at the 4×6 snapshot. The tears came again, this time slower, as I remembered the breeze blowing kisses across the shoreline and the cool sand tucked between my toes. How fast that moment came and went. How badly I wished to go back.

 

Carefully, I tucked the photo into the suitcase.

 

“OK, Mr. Suitcase, I’m gonna need some help,” I said at last, wiping away the remaining tears, “What else will I need for the rest of my life?”

 

“Funny,” said Mr. Suitcase, which I imagined sounded like my father, passing on his infinite wisdom, “You’ve only been looking at your life as an adult. For nearly half your life, you were a kid. Why don’t you…” I ran away from the voice in my head.

 

Dashing down into the basement, I threw open several storage bins that held my childhood. Medals, awards, and plagues crashed upon the floor as I delved. They would mean nothing where I was going.

 

But my life, my whole life, would come with me, even in my old age. I’d need to remember. I’d need to remember the child within me; the little girl walking around in her diaper on a hot summer day, playing house with her stuffed animals, picking dandelions and daisies. I could see the smile on her face, her long, golden hair, living without care. I’d need that.

 

Then I found it. Raggedy and dusty, Mrs. Gentry.

 

She was a teddy bear with a long blonde wig and glasses. My favorite toy as a child. No, that’s not right. She was my first friend. I took her everywhere, or so my mother says. I remember sitting with her out in the summer sun reading books for hours, talking about princes and princesses, and imagining what life would be like when I got older. Seeing her made me feel young again, bringing me back to simpler times. She went in.

 

Almost full now. Almost time to go. I imagined the next few hours in my head, arriving at the spaceport alongside couples and families, watching them comfort one another and stride bravely into their new life. Then there’s me, standing alone. I’d been lonely before, but there was always someone to fill the bed. This was different. A new kind of loneliness, like no one showing up to your funeral.

 

Sadness was replaced by a lightbulb. An old poem shot into my mind. Out into the living room I went. There I found on my coffee table, a collection of poems. I flipped to the appropriate page and read what I needed to hear.

 

Just like moons and like suns,

With the certainty of tides,

Just like hopes springing high,

Still I’ll rise.

 

“And Still, I Rise by Maya Angelou.” The world Maya lived in would suddenly be turned to ash, but her words still rang true. I’d need to remember them, so the poems went in.

 

I filled the remaining space with odds and ends; my favorite pair of socks, a coffee mug with a print of my old dog, Spartacus, and my digital camera, something I’d hardly used. Up in space, maybe now I’ll have the time to give the hobby a real go.

 

Shutting the lid on the suitcase was like closing the top of a coffin. My old life was dead, and now, a chance to start fresh, with all the memories of the life I had before.

 

I’d miss all of this. Part of me wished I gave it the attention it deserved, gave it more of myself. But, for some reason, I wasn’t so sad anymore. Soon I’d have a new home, with new faces, and a chance to make right on all the mistakes I’d made down here.

 

Staring at that suitcase, filled with all I loved, I made a promise to myself, not to make the same mistake again.

I am an ordinary Chinese person, and here’s my perspective.

The previous tariff war sparked widespread concern among Chinese people. As shown in the image above, 24 hours before, on a Chinese website similar to Quora, I saw the topic of China-U.S. tariffs reached a popularity of 348 million, with 61.07 million people were discussing related issues.

This level of attention is unprecedented in my memory—truly never seen before.

But today, with the news of a 90-day tariff suspension for 75 other countries, everyone breathed a sigh of relief: this time, we won.

Chinese merchants reacted incredibly quickly. As shown in the image, they’ve already produced enamel mugs modeled after the “Victory in the Korean War” memorabilia, priced between 20 and 40 yuan (about 2.85 to 5.7 USD).

Back in 1950, China was very poor, so the commemorative item for soldiers who fought in the war was typically an enamel mug—a highly treasured “possession” at the time.

This replica bears the inscription: “Commemorating Participation in the Reciprocal Tariff War, April 2025.”

(I’ll buy one eventually, but the price is too high right now. I think a reasonable price would be 1 to 1.5 USD.)

To be honest, this tariff war triggered the Chinese people’s PTSD from the “Century of Humiliation,” so from what I can see, almost the entire nation supported the government.

Many people said they would rather go bankrupt to support the government. So this mug is now selling very well.

And from my perspective, China has indeed come out victorious this time.

Imposing a 10% tariff on other countries and delaying it by 90 days is essentially meaningless—it’s just a return to the old path of the 2018 tariff war against China.

China can still circumvent tariffs through transshipment trade.

Now everyone’s saying that the Pacific Ocean has turned into “Yangcheng Lake.”

Let me explain.

Chinese people love eating crabs, and the most famous and expensive ones come from Yangcheng Lake. But that lake is only 120 square kilometers, while China consumes 7 billion crabs annually.

(Yangcheng Lake wetlands, China’s most famous crab-producing area)

So, many merchants load up trucks with crabs, drive them to Yangcheng Lake, toss them into the water in net, and drag them out— voilà, “bathed” crabs, now labeled as originating from Yangcheng Lake!

In other words, the U.S.’s 124% tariff targeting China alone is pointless. Chinese products get shipped to Vietnam, Mexico, or wherever else, slapped with a “Made in Vietnam” label or the like, slightly marked up in price, and then enter the U.S. without issue.

From what I know, some products don’t even need relabeling—they’re already labeled in China beforehand.

(A satirical image from the Chinese internet: a children’s geography map, but with the Pacific Ocean relabeled as “Yangcheng Lake”)

U.S. Customs lets them through too—no one’s going to fight against money.

After Chinese products get “bathed” in this Yangcheng Lake-style process, the middlemen handling the transshipment profit—after all, they earn money without doing much; American consumers benefit because domestic goods are too expensive; and Customs officials, from top to bottom, likely pocket some gray income.

That’s roughly the situation.

As for 90 days from now, I think Trump’s die-hard supporters will have long forgotten about this, just like the promises of ending the Russia-Ukraine conflict in a day, securing $500 billion worth of Ukrainian minerals for the U.S., or dealing with the Houthis—all forgotten.

In fact, a conspiracy theory is now trending on the Chinese internet: Trump is doing this to manipulate stock prices on a massive scale and profit from trading.

Some even say this round of maneuvers could rake in hundreds of billions of dollars!

I find that hard to believe, but a lot of people genuinely think so.

TikTok Ban Backfires: Chinese App XiaoHongshu is America’s Surprising TikTok Replacement

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ksnip 20250326 152200

Xi will not call Trump. Even if Trump calls Xi, Xi will only read the content of the call but will not reply. 😁

Trump’s favorite thing to do is to exert extreme pressure and blackmail anytime and anywhere. If the blackmail succeeds, he will make money. If the blackmail fails, it doesn’t matter. Anyway, there is no cost, and he can continue to blackmail the next country.

Trump said his purpose twice before and after the tariff war with China:

  • First, if China agrees to sell TIKTOK to the United States, I may consider lowering tariffs;
  • Second, if China agrees to my conditions on issues such as fentanyl, I may consider lowering tariffs;

Then Trump provoked the tariff war and waited for the Chinese government to negotiate with him.

He never expected that the Chinese government would not give him a chance to negotiate, but would directly retaliate by increasing tariffs by 34% on all American goods, giving him a taste of what a tariff war is. (Latest news: China increases tariffs by 84% on all US goods) 😁

Trump was shocked and wrote on the social platform:

China played it wrong, they panicked – the one thing they cannot afford to do!

Most people dont realize, only 8% of China’s exports are to the U.S, China can completely cut U.S off and still survive. But U.S Cost of living would sky rocket by 100% lol. MATH

What China imports from the United States are not necessities of life, and there are many countries that provide alternatives. However, if you want to know where the daily necessities in American supermarkets come from, you can go to the supermarket.

Chinese companies such as Huawei and TikTok would rather withdraw from the US market than succumb to the United States.

The final battle of the tariff war is about the resilience of the people and businesses of the two countries. Who can endure more hardships and withstand more pressure?

Democracy versus autocracy. In terms of tariff wars and national will, I am afraid that “autocracy” has a natural advantage! 😂😂😂

China has a complete manufacturing chain, a vast domestic demand market, and a planned economy, and the whole country can be unified.

The United States cannot win. It imports from all over the world and has a large trade deficit, which proves its dependence on other countries.

Yes they will and this is not a theory.

This is the USS Gravely a guided missile destroyer. It’s a fairly new ship by USN standards. Construction began in 2007 and was finished in 2009.

The USS Gravely was involved in this conflict.

The USS Gravely had an incoming missile get within 1 mile (US source).

https://www.navytimes.com/news/your-navy/2024/02/01/a-houthi-missile-got-within-a-nautical-mile-of-uss-gravely-on-tuesday/

Ansar Allah doesn’t exactly have the best technology, yet they were able to defeat the two outer rings of the AEGIS equipped missile destroyer.

But wait. USS Gravely is part of the USS Eisenhower group!

Where was the flat top? Oh it was in the Mediterranean sea for much of the conflict. Why was the carrier so far away if the Houthis posed no threat with their old weapons?

It was far away because the Houthis proved to be a threat! Remember Yemen isn’t a huge economy. It’s been in a civil war for a decade. They have limited production capacity. Yet they posed a significant threat.

Next comes the argument you can’t find a carrier!

It’s an old argument based on the sea is big.

Except in 2020 using Jilin-1 a low earth orbit satellite this happened

What’s that? Jilin-1 the prototype satellite tracked an F-22. It tracked it for a few minutes. It couldn’t track it for a long time because there was only one satellite. Its orbit moved out of position. The theory is the satellite took a photo, beamed the image down to a ground based AI and the AI told the satellite where to look. The Jilin constellation of satellites was completed a few months ago.

An F-22 is a lot smaller than a carrier.

Exploring the Martian Frontier | English Full Movie

A moment of cleanliness brings clarity

I was in London doing the typical touristy thing. When I left my hotel with only a light sweater, it was bright and sunny, however, within a couple of hours the wind blew in and a very heavy rain started.

I am notorious in my friends and family circle for being directionally dyslexic. I have absolutely no sense of direction.

I went in to shop at Harrod’s, and didn’t realize the weather had changed so drastically and, of course, in keeping with what typically happens to me in unfamiliar cities, I got completely turned around and lost.

I wandered around in the pouring rain for maybe 1/2 hour or so, and was sopping wet, cold, confused and exhausted when I spotted a very tiny (maybe 6 tables) restaurant. I went in and practically collapsed in a chair.

Suddenly I hear a wonderful voice. “Oh you poor poor dear. You must be exhausted…”

And then I felt a warm blanket being placed around my shoulders. The owners of the establishment were an older couple who were probably the kindest, gentlest couple I’ve ever met. Really wonderful.

They helped me dry off, then brought me a huge bowl of potato leek soup and fresh homemade bread. They were so lovely that they invited me to check out of my hotel and stay with them (which I did.)

Their daughter was going to school “in the States” and they said that if she was ever in a situation like I was, that they hoped someone would be as kind to her.

I had a lovely time with them and we’ve kept in touch for many years.

I was also able to “repay” their generosity in a small way when their daughter came to visit my city and she stayed with me and we had a wonderful time as I showed her around.

Pride of Iowa Cookies

This is a very old recipe and one of the best cookies in the whole world!

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8bb85374fcb5f8bf880749f3ce896c0b

Yield: 3 dozen

Ingredients

  • 1 cup brown sugar
  • 1 cup butter, softened
  • 1 cup coconut
  • 1/2 teaspoon salt
  • 3 cups rolled oats
  • 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
  • 1 cup granulated sugar
  • 2 eggs
  • 1 teaspoon baking soda
  • 1 teaspoon baking powder
  • 2 cups all-purpose flour
  • 1 cup chopped nuts

Instructions

  1. Heat oven to 350 degrees F. Grease cookie sheets.
  2. Cream together shortening and sugars.
  3. Mix in flour, salt, soda, baking powder and oatmeal.
  4. Stir in coconut, eggs, vanilla extract and nuts.
  5. Drop by teaspoonsful onto cookie sheets.
  6. Bake for 15 minutes.
  7. Cool on wire racks.
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ksnip 20250326 152648

China’s domestic supply of domestic demand is sufficient, and there are enough products, and China has enough stocks of essential goods for the livelihood of Chinese residents.

In the Sino-US tariff war, China is really affected in only a few areas:

  1. The financial sector will be affected. So stockholders should not enter the market easily at this time.
  2. the commodities market will be affected. Therefore, do not speculate in commodity futures for the time being.
  3. some companies in the commodities sector and some companies in the financial sector will be affected.

The Chinese government has made all the preparations, next week China will introduce some economic support policies for foreign trade enterprises, if your business is involved in foreign trade can pay attention to how to apply for some loans, grants, or subsidies there will be corresponding policies.

Then, there are agricultural and sideline products.

In this tariff war, the Chinese government mainly sanctioned the United States agricultural and sideline products. However, these agricultural and sideline products are not human food, but are used for animal feed purposes.

The agricultural by-products that Chinese people eat are those produced in their own country, not imported, and in the case of China’s food reserves, they will not be used up in 5-7 years.

As mentioned earlier, the agricultural by-products imported from the US are used for animal feed purposes, so the price of meat may go up temporarily. However, the chinese government will surely open warehouses to bring hoarded pork, mutton, and beef types into the market, or provide some meat subsidies to the entire population. There is no need to worry about any of these.


Chinese people have been self-sufficient for thousands of years.

If Chinese people have a yard, they will collect rainwater in front of and behind the house, open up a piece of land in the yard to grow their favorite vegetables or plants, raise a few chickens to lay eggs, or hang a clothesline in the yard to dry clothes and quilts. This is very common in China. But in the United States, these practices are illegal.

Take my family for example, My relatives in the suburbs bring me eggs every other day. Auntie brought me two bags of eggs the day before yesterday, and today my cousin brought me two more bags of eggs. Now I have more eggs in my fridge than I can eat …… Of course, they can also sell the crops they grow and the eggs laid by their own chickens at farmers’ markets without having to pay taxes.

When there was an egg shortage in the United States, Americans secretly sold eggs laid by their own hens, just like doing secret work. 🤣

So we joked that the reason why Li Ziqi is so popular on the Internet is because what she does is illegal in the United States.


American businessmen have acted much more quickly than Chinese businessmen, who have turned Trump’s tariffs into “tariff surcharges” and quickly passed them on to American consumers, and Americans have become the first victims of Trump’s tariffs.

Sailing to the end of the world

Written in response to: Write a story about someone who must fit their entire life in a single suitcase.

Mike Ramsey

Brian heard about the end of the world by chance. The two military officers – one with an eagle pin and the other with some stars – were whispering in a doorway. This was 15 minutes before the hurriedly called press conference in Detroit’s city hall.”I already sent my kids to the fallout bunker at Selfridge,” the eagle guy said in a hushed voice. “I don’t know where else to send them. If I could, I would have taken an APC and just gone to our cabin up north.”The star guy shook his head. “Won’t matter, I don’t think. I don’t think any of us will get out of this city once we make the announcement. Everyone is going to panic. They can knock dead anything that uses electronics. We are sitting ducks.” 

Who, exactly, were the “they” in this whispered conversation? Brian had a suspicion. There had been reports over the past few days of strange military behavior all over world. There had been sightings in the sky, dismissed as drone tests. Former military officers had warned of years of sightings of aliens, but no one seemed to pay much attention. After all, Elon Musk was trying to shut down the IRS.

 

That was when Brian did something very out of character. He stopped what he was doing without another thought, and ran to his car. Brian was a city planner who came to work in Detroit after being swept up in the joy of rebuilding a city run roughshod by economics, bad leaders and racism.

 

He jumped into his 2007 Mazda 3 and tore out of the parking garage. When he had moved to Detroit, there was a joke that red lights were optional because so many people ran them and the police rarely stopped anyone. Today, it was true. Brian floored it down Jefferson Avenue toward Grosse Pointe, where he had settled on the edge Detroit. His appetite for urban pioneering had ebbed when his daughter reached kindergarten.

 

He ran the first stop light and then accelerated. He saw that no one was on the sidewalk and jumped the curb and went past the next light. Horns blasted and one guy actually threw something out his window at him. Brian almost slowed down at this point, but he flicked his eyes at the clock. In 2 minutes, the press conference would begin. He accelerated and passed cars on the left, tearing past a Jeep factory.

 

When he reached Grosse Pointe Park, one of the five lakeside communities tucked between Lake St. Clair and Detroit, he did slow down. He couldn’t afford to have the cops stop him so close to home. The announcement was being made now. He heard the news coming in on the radio.

 

“We are expecting a global attack to occur and it could begin at any moment. The best thing to do is to seek shelter in basements and wait for more information to come. We have limited information, except that there are more than 10,000 UAVs in the upper atmosphere, spread across most of the largest population areas of the world.”

 

Brian drove onto his lawn. He ran up the steps to his bungalow and burst in. His wife yelped as she saw him scan around with panicked eyes.

 

“Brian! What the hell!” Mandy said. “What are you doing?”

 

“Mandy, I need you to grab whatever food you can from the pantry and shove it in a bag and bring that case of water from the basement. We need to leave this house in 15 minutes, or less. Where is Eve?”

 

“What in the hell is going on? What is wrong with you?” she said, fear shadowing her face.

 

“It’s the end of the world, babe. The aliens are invading and I am not actually fucking around if you can believe it. We have to be out of here as fast as possible. They can shut down anything with electronics. I have a plan, though. But we have to go right now.”

 

“Eve is upstairs. She just got home from school,” Mandy said. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

 

Brian didn’t answer. He just pelted upstairs and got out his biggest suitcase. It was an oblong and had wheels. He looked at his dresser and closet for a minute and tried to imagine what he would need. He put in every pair of underwear, three pairs of socks, his three favorite t-shirts, two zip-up hoodies, a pair of jeans and a swimsuit. He found the single South African gold krugerrand hidden in his drawer given to him by his parents and threw that in as well.

 

Then he stuffed in a very similar set of clothes from his wife’s things. How many bras should he pack? Three? He looked at the clock. He had 10 minutes left. He ran into his daughter’s room and began stuffing clothes into the bag. It was starting to get too full to hold much more. They would have to figure things out later.

 

He pulled the comforter off his bed and dragged the suitcase down the steps.

 

“Where do things stand?” he said, looking at Mandy stuffing boxes of food and canned food into a gym bag. She had pulled the case of water from the basement and it was sitting by the front door.

 

“I almost have everything we can fit for now,” she said. “Eve is freaking out. I am freaking out.”

 

He nodded and swept his arm around the kitchen. “Maybe grab a couple knives, a can opener and a pot. Then we need to get the hell out of here. I mean it.”

 

Mandy nodded and grabbed the big kitchen knife and also grabbed a lighter from a drawer and stuffed it into the bag. It wasn’t much. It wouldn’t last them long.

 

Brian rushed outside with the bag and put it in the trunk of the car. His neighbors were outside now and everyone was staring at his car in the yard. They were talking to each other and he could hear them talking about the invasion. All he was thinking about was the military and what they had said. No one would be able to leave soon.

 

He ran back inside and Mandy was leading Eve out of the house. His 5-year-old was wearing a coat that she didn’t need in the warm early autumn weather. Mandy had grabbed her favorite MSU sweatshirt and tied it around her waist and held a box of tampons in one hand and the duffle bag stuffed with food in the other.

 

Everyone outside heard a faint whine and saw what looked like a plane move across the sky at an impossible speed.

 

“Let’s go,” Brian said, ignoring his neighbors. He was single-minded now. He didn’t know how long he had until the power went out.

 

When Eve was snapped into the back, he backed off the lawn and raced down the street. He was headed to the marina where his 25-foot Catalina sailboat was moored. The boat had been his father’s and he gave it to him when he moved to Florida two years ago. He wasn’t that great at sailing it, but good enough for a desperate escape.

 

He drove into the city park where his boat was stored and right through a gap in the fence, past the parking lot. He dodged barbecues built into the ground and pulled next to the boats. Urging his family to rush, he grabbed the tiny collection of things they had brought. He wasn’t sure they had even locked their doors at home.

 

As soon as he was on the boat, he started the small motor that helped them navigate the marina. If the power went out before he could get out of the berth, it would be hard to get to the lake.

 

With the ropes off, he pulled out of the slip, banging one side on the bumpers and then he shot the boat forward out of the marina. It cleared the breakwater when they heard a “whoomp” and the engine shut off. His phone turned black. Silence reigned. Only the sound of the boat splashed through the water could be heard.

 

He and Mandy quickly put up the main sail and he turned north. The only hope they had was to head up the river and keep going north, away from the populated areas. Detroit would be a mess with cars stopped everywhere and no electronics.

 

Mandy looked at him and shook her head. They had barely spoken since he had rushed in the front door. Eve whimpered and clung to her as the boat picked up speed and Brian unfurled the jib.

 

“I don’t have any pictures. Nothing,” she said.

 

“We’re alive,” Brian said. “No matter what happens. I am glad we did this.”

Well, we’d ‘downsized’ from a large home – and I needed a home office (because I work from home). We’d decided to make a xeriscaped Japanese-style garden – so I decided to build a “Tea House” of my own design – and I did 100% of the work myself…

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main qimg 790583077c457f1a5d4259b32eeee4c6

I’m actually not good with heights – so getting the curved roof beams erected was a bit terrifying, The roof curves in all three directions – so there was quite a bit of CAD work that went into that bit…

It’s designed to look like it’s very old – so we used heavy timbers, stained to look old. The cheap limber I bought cracked – and that really adds to the ancient up-close appearance.

Here’s the final thing… I put off-white-blinds behind the windows to give it the look of paper walls…

The interior shows off my complicated woodwork…

It has a Mini-split airconditioner/heater – and is a very practical home office…

It looked SO cool in winter…

…and also at night…

We moved to a larger house a few years later – I was sad to have to leave it.

I’ve done some bigger and more complicated DIY jobs since then – but this is the one I was most proud of because I did the *ENTIRE* job.

Our latest house move is to a 115 year old house which needs a LOT of work…it has details that badly need rescuing…the electrical system is *SO* bad…it’s twice tried to kill me!

Pictures

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Default Imagine a Baroque box label for craft brewed beer with 1 (copy)
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Default Imagine a Baroque box label for farm cats with an attr 3
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Default Imagine a Baroque box label for farm crafted beer with 0(1)
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Default Imagine a Baroque box label for farm crafted beer with 0(4)
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Default Imagine a Baroque box label for farm crafted beer with 2(1)
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Default Imagine a Baroque box label for farm crafted beer with 2(4)
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Default Imagine a Baroque box label for farm crafted beer with 3(1)
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Default Imagine a Baroque box label for farm crafted beer with 3(4)
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Default Imagine a Baroque box label for craft brewed beer with 2

See these surfboards

Last year (2023) , nearly 82% of the Surfboards sold in the US were manufactured in China after being designed in the US

A Single Surfboard that costs 1350 Yuan to make and ship into the US ($ 186) is sold for $ 700 retail or rented for $ 15 an hour (Deposit $ 300)

The Chinese Factory makes a profit of 370 Yuan per surfboard ($ 51)

The US Business makes $ 400 profit even after overheads and assuming only 60% Inventory sale

So the for $ 1 that the Chinese business makes the US Business makes $ 8

So now when Donnie passes a Tariff on these Surfboards forcing the importer to pay and extra $ 270 in tariffs and a final price of $ 460

The Importer after 60% Inventory and overheads makes a profit of $ 130

The Chinese Business makes the same $ 51 profit

Now the American Business owners final income falls by 65% !!!

From a respectable $ 120,000 a year to $ 42,000 a year

He cannot sustain the business and has to close shop and declare bankruptcy

Now who else makes Surfboards?

Nobody else

Highest quality Olympian surfboards are made in California and cost $ 1,900 a piece wholesale or $ 1,850 a piece wholesale (Made in Toledo Ohio) which our local business would never buy as he could never hope to resell to his customers who rent a surfboard at $ 15 an hour or buy surfboards for $ 550–700

So what are the losses?

The Chinese factory loses $ 51 worth of profit

The Chinese workers and Suppliers lose $ 135 worth of Raw Materials & the Shipper loses maybe $ 10–25

The American Business loses a whopping $ 400 profit !!!! They lose a nice $ 120,000 Income a year !!!

The Business loses $ 100–120 of Office Rent that the Surfboard sale brings

So to cause a $ 186 hit to China, Trumps tariffs take out a hit of $ 600–$700 to the US Economy


So Trump is torching over 350,000 Small Businesses and bankrupting many of them with these tariffs

He is denying them $ 8 of profit that they make for every $ 1 of Profit that China makes

It’s like someone imposing a 145% Tariff on Dosa Flour, Idly Flour, Poori Flour , Vegetables, Rice, Ghee

The Suppliers will lose money yes

Unfortunately the Restaurants which sell Masala Roast, Ghee Roast, Biryani, Poori, Pongal etc will LOSE FAR MORE

The Customers will be driven away after being forced to pay ₹ 210/- for a Dosa that normally costs ₹80/- or ₹ 190/- for a Pongal that costs ₹72/-

So waiters will lose money and jobs and the restaurant may close down!!!

The entire restaurant industry will shut down because there are no other suppliers who can supply the Dosa Flour, Idly Flour and other items in even 20% quantity

What exactly can China do against someone so dumb and stupid?

Americans React to China’s Lifestyle after Joining the Red Note App.

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ksnip 20250326 152813

Perhaps the reason cited by Brenda Deason in her answer is the truth.

Her answer states that:

What I learned in those three years is that the food in what we think are Chinese restaurants is not Chinese, as in it is not the food they eat in China. What they eat in China is not at all appealing to Americans. The restaurants here have American food.

When a restaurant offers actual Chinese food, it’s best to use Chinese characters to keep Americans from ordering those dishes. This preserves the restaurant’s reputation, since Americans would find it unpalatable and post unfavorable reviews.


According to Brenda Deason’s answer, the reason is simple:

What we eat here in China is not at all appealing to Americans.

What we eat here in China, Americans would find unpalatable and any restaurant that dares to serve the dishes we eat here in China would be bombed with unfavorable reviews, and their reputation would be left in tatters.

Those of you who have followed me on Quora and read my posts know that I eat “Chinese food” every day, and I do enjoy posting about “Chinese food”.

Maybe Brenda Deason does have a very good point.

I doubt any American would want to eat the food we eat day in day out here in China.


What American would dare to eat 西红柿热干面 (xīhóngshì rè gān miàn) [Tomato Hot Dry Noodles] ???


What American would want to eat this Shunde dish, 大三元 (dà sān yuán) [Big Three Yuan], this absolutely terrifying steamed platter comprising meatballs, beef ribs, Chinese cabbage, squash, rice noodles, etc.


What American would bring themselves to eat 酸菜鱼面 (suāncài yú miàn) [Fish Noodles with Pickled Vegetables]?


What American could stomach the eating of 鱼汤面(yú tāngmiàn) [Fish Soup Noodles] that dangerous looking dish that combines BOTH fish AND noodles?


What American would even want to go anywhere near 肉夹馍 (ròu jiā mó) this godless, feckless, horrifying burger-like snack that doesn’t even feature a single drop of cheese?


Conclusion:

Needless to say, American restaurants serving Chinese-inspired American food in the United States are in it for the profit.

Like any business, they need to make money to survive, and to flourish and thrive.

They cannot have their reputations besmirched by serving Americans the food that Chinese folks here in China actually eat (some of which are shown above) for Americans would find it absolutely unpalatable.

Sir Whiskerton and the Muddy Melody: A Lesson in Baths and Clarity


The Great Muddy Disaster

A torrential downpour had turned Sir Whiskerton’s usually pristine farm into a swampy nightmare. Puddles the size of small ponds dotted the barnyard, the chicken coop had become a dubious mud spa, and worst of all—Ferdinand the Duck, the farm’s resident “opera quacker,” was in crisis.

“I CAN’T PERFORM LIKE THIS!” Ferdinand wailed, flapping his mud-caked wings dramatically. “My feathers are ruined! My quacks sound like squelches! I am a artist, not a mud wrestler!

Sir Whiskerton, perched elegantly on the only dry fence post, observed the chaos with mild amusement. Beside him, Ditto—his ever-enthusiastic apprentice—was practically vibrating with energy.

“What do we do, Sir Whiskerton?!” Ditto chirped, his paws sinking slightly into the muck. “Ferdinand won’t sing, Doris is threatening to boycott the barn until it’s ‘sanitary,’ and Chef Remy’s ‘mud-infused soup’ is not helping!”

Sir Whiskerton flicked his tail. “The solution is simple, Ditto. When in doubt, take a bath.

Ditto blinked. “A… bath?”

“Indeed. A moment of cleanliness brings clarity.”


The Duck Drama Deepens

Ferdinand, now lying in the mud like a disgraced tenor, groaned. “A bath? Impossible! The pond is filthy! I refuse to wallow in common filth!

Chef Remy LeRaccoon, who had been stirring a suspicious-looking pot nearby, piped up. “Ah, but mon ami, zee mud adds flavor! My new soup—Bouillabaisse de Boue—is magnifique!

Porkchop sniffed the pot and immediately gagged. “That’s not soup. That’s pond scum with a fancy name.

Sir Whiskerton sighed. “Clearly, we have a farm-wide hygiene crisis. Ditto, observe.” With that, he leapt down, sauntered to the cleanest puddle he could find, and began meticulously washing his paws.

Ditto tilted his head. “But… how does you bathing fix Ferdinand’s meltdown?”

Sir Whiskerton paused mid-lick. “It’s not about the bath itself, Ditto. It’s about pausing. When everything is muddy—literally or figuratively—taking a moment to clean up your thoughts helps you see the next step.”

Ferdinand, still sprawled in the muck, groaned. “OR I COULD JUST STAY HERE AND SUFFER!

Sir Whiskerton shot him a look. “Take a bath, you melodramatic mallard.”


The Moral (With Suds and Clarity)

Reluctantly, Ferdinand waddled to a rain barrel and dunked himself. Moments later, he emerged—dripping, but dramatically revived.

My quacks!” he gasped. “They’re crystalline again!” He immediately launched into an off-key rendition of Quack of Ages.

Meanwhile, Ditto—inspired—found a clean patch of grass and sat down, giving his muddy paws a careful lick. “Huh. You’re right, Sir Whiskerton. I do think better when I’m not covered in gunk.”

“Precisely,” Sir Whiskerton purred. “Muddy paws lead to muddy thoughts. A little self-care never hurt anyone.”

Chef Remy, still stirring his dubious soup, muttered, “Zis is why cats are boring.

Porkchop patted him on the back. “Yeah, but at least we’re not eating pond sludge.


The End.

Moral: Taking a moment to pause and reflect can help you see things more clearly.
Best Line: “Take a bath, you melodramatic mallard!” – Sir Whiskerton, part detective, part life coach.

This what made me fall in love. I have told this story before, but I can never say enough good things about my wife.

I have been in love twice, the second time much more intense than the first time.

The first time my best friend gradually became my girlfriend. You would think that would be the perfect situation. But it didn’t work out.

The second, best and last time, I found the perfect woman.

Men are visual and my wife is gorgeous. I am a giver and my wife is a giver. This makes a huge difference in a relationship, it was part of the problem with the first relationship. You never have to worry that your spouse puts themselves first, when you are married to a giver.

My wife looks at everything with childlike wonder. She can find a pretty rock, and can’t wait to show it to me.

My wife like me is a hard worker, and a saver. So there is compatibility.

My wife is the most positive person I have ever met. She has more friends than anyone I know. Everyone is drawn to someone who is always upbeat.

My wife is kind, and volunteers to help the homeless.

My wife is patient and never says a rude word to me, even when I deserve it.

How anyone who looks like she does, can be humble is a mystery to me, but she is.

So I fell in love with my wife, because she is kind, patient, giving, positive, and sexy.

That’s what made me fall in love.

GIFTING CULTURE IN CHINA| THINGS CONSIDERED CULTURAL TABOOS IN CHINA| CHINESE CULTURE COMPILATION

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ksnip 20250326 153118

US imports large quantity and variety of goods from China, worth about $450 billion.

Chinese goods meet the needs of consumers, factories, and offices. The tariff, which is now 145%, would cause prices to rise and shortages. This is the direct hurt on the US. The tariffs will be paid mostly by US buyers.

The hurt is somewhat relieved by Trump’s selective tariff exemptions of electronic goods. If you look through the list, you will find they are the major China’s exports to the US.

Then there is the indirect hurt from the the financial markets. The tariffs have caused turmoil in the stock market, the bond market, and the dollar exchange rate. The selective tariff exemptions may have an easing effect, but the uncertainties and pressures remain.

China used to depend on US tech. Due to US sanctions and embargoes, it has removed this dependence and replaced it with its own production. US tech goods are therefore off the picture.

China’s big imports from the US are agriculture and energy goods. The tariff is 125%, too high for any trade to take place. China has many alternative sources of supply of these goods.

China’s imports from the US are worth less than $150 billion, a large chunk of it are agriculture and energy goods. China is self-sufficient in industrial goods.

Its tariffs of US goods will at worst cause some incidental and be modest price increases.

Chinese exporters will have to adjust their production and find new markets to replace the short-fall of US imports. They will be hurt more than consumers.

US exporters of agriculture goods will have a difficult time to find alternative buyers. As was the case during Trump’s first term, they will seek government subsidies to make up for the loss sales.

Mourning Fire

Written in response to: Center your story around a character who’s struggling to let go.

S. T. Seitz

MOURNING FIRE

by

S. T. Seitz

Calida yearns to be the peony in her garden, the one being strangled by bindweed. How much easier it would be to give up and lay her head on the ground the way that plump bloom rests on the soil. Easier than finding the strength to keep breathing, to keep moving. To put on her gardening gloves and cut back those choking vines before they take over her yard. What would be the point, anyway? If she pulls those ugly serpent weeds, they’ll just grow back. Even if she digs her hori hori knife deep into the newly thawed soil and pulls the full length of the pale rhizomes free, other weeds will just take their place. And if they don’t, the peonies will still die, eventually. They’ll shrivel under the remorseless summer sun. Or at the unforgiving, icy hands of winter. Everything dies eventually. Some sooner than others. So what’s the fucking point of any of it?

She runs through this tired argument as she stares at the garden out the kitchen window. Her elbows are propped on the edge of the sink, the reek of the stacked dishes inside twisting up her nostrils but hardly registering.

“Go dig a hole and crawl in then,” she tells herself.

This is not her giving up. This is what she knows she needs to hear. Stubborn is what people call her when they’re being kind. Obstinate is a more accurate term. So obstinate, in fact, that even when it’s her telling her to do something, she feels viscerally compelled to do the opposite.

“Fuck you.” She tells herself, tells the world, then stomps to the door, pulls her gardening gloves off the hook above the light switch, and marches outside with more conviction than she’s had in two months. Then she’s had since she lost them.

She kneels in dirt still moist with morning dew. Prickly pieces of mulch and the occasional sharp rock press into her flesh through the thin sweats she’s been wearing for—well, too long to remember. The pain is a welcome sensation against the numbing callous of grief. She breathes it in, savors it in the back of her throat, in the pit of her stomach, then drives the hori hori blade into the Earth. The sharp point of the serrated shovel reveals a tangle of smooth white roots, each of them giving rise to a spindly vine. The rhizomes are easy enough to track through the earth. She slides her fingers along them, pressing into the dirt as far as the spring thaw will allow. Then she pinches and yanks back.

As long as you go deep, the roots are simple enough to extract. The vines, less so. At least, now that they’ve had time to twist around the thick stems of the peonies.

Calida takes the serrated edge of the shovel and meticulously slices away at the bindweed. The tool has retained its razor’s edge from when she sharpened it last fall and makes quick work of the first strangling mass. Once she’s yanked away the tangle, she runs her hand down the unfettered stem and over the bloom, propping it up so it can feel the sun. Those petals burn like flames in the light, orange at the edges and a deep ember-red in the center. Morning Fire. Her very own cultivar, one she bred through trial and error for no other reason than to feel the pride of creation.

That feeling rings through her now, but the sound is a hollow thud against the remnants of destruction that coat her insides like tar. She can’t think that word—destruction—without looking to the sky. She’s certain she’s not the first person to be stricken by this affliction. For millennia, man has turned to the heavens with meager hopes of understanding their suffering. But the deity she wants answers from is not some divine spirit. It’s a writhing ball of rainbow gas that stares down on her with as much odium as she casts up at it.

Near Earth Celestial Anomaly. That’s the official name. Calida prefers Fenrir, caster of flame, destroyer of worlds. Her world, anyway. For so long, that iridescent ball of nebulous gas with its black cat-eye center had been harmless. And then, as if it just got bored one day, it spit out a massive, matter erasing flare. The thing crashed to Earth with the same fervor as the meteor that fucked over the dinosaurs, leaving a seventy-mile-wide crater in its wake.

It was just (very, very bad) luck that she was standing farther away than they were when it hit.

With every second she stares into the obsidian eye of that heinous rift, her resolve wains. She could spend all day out here slicing away the weeds, but the bloom in her hand will still die. Eventually.

A sob hits her like a convulsion, whipping her head forward and doubling her over. She catches her face in her hands. The jagged teeth of the hori hori clutched between her thumb and forefinger slide across her cheek, ripping flesh and sowing blood. She curses, then rips the peony she’d been holding from its stem and shreds it, littering the ground with red and orange petals. With soft pieces of flame.

The blood snakes down her cheek, tickling nerve endings like the gentle caress of a lover. By the time she reaches the bathroom, the trail of crimson has made it to the frayed collar of her tee-shirt, saturating the dingy fabric until the stains fade to uniform red. Cleansing them in its way.

Calida stares at herself in the mirror and wishes very suddenly, very deeply, for the same. The cleansing touch of blood. To bathe in it. To feel it vellicating her body as it cleanses the wounds time will never heal. She leans across the counter, reaching for the hori hori. As she does, a drop of blood frees itself from her jawline and catches her hand.

She stares at the splattered crimson. “Do. It.” The words come through her teeth.

Her spine snaps straight and her jaw muscles pulse in that obstinate way. Forgetting the knife, she bends for the bottom drawer, meaning to dig out a bandage for her cheek. But when she reaches inside, it isn’t a box of band aids she finds, but a nest of gauze and hair ties with a foam elephant snug in the center.

Her body goes cold.

How long she stands there before reaching down, she doesn’t know. But eventually that elephant-shaped stress ball ends up in her hands. Weeks ago, friends had boxed up her husband’s and daughter’s possessions. They said it would help. Calida’s not sure it did, and she’s certain it does nothing to ease the sting of finding this last trace of her daughter—the last evidence of her playful soul, so bursting with love that she’d dedicated an afternoon to finding an elephant-shaped hunk of foam the perfect place to sleep.

Calida rolls it around in her hands, feeling warmth where it no longer exists. This object was once alight with her daughter’s touch. She knows it. She feels it.

It isn’t until the third mindless rotation that she notices the white tag hanging below the elephant’s stubby foam tail. On it are three lines of text. The first reads, Intermountain Division, DioMatics Inc. Below is an address—an address less than fifty miles from where she is standing.

Before the flare ripped through the atmosphere and claimed her family, Calida was vaguely aware of a young billionaire buying up companies faster than the other heartless magnates. But it wasn’t until people on social media started dropping the names “XpaceDM” and “DioMatics” as being potentially responsible for the flare, that she came to learn that these companies and this person were related. Calida hadn’t paid much mind to the rumors, because they were only rumors. But as she stares at the address, she can’t help but replay those claims. What if this company is responsible for their deaths? What if the perpetrator of her grief is a mere hour’s drive away?

Without removing her gaze from the elephant, she reaches for the hori hori and wraps her fingers around the hilt, bringing the toothy blade closer. With the snap of her wrist, she slices the air and separates the tag from the foam body of the stress ball. She tosses the knife back onto the counter and lifts the text so she can better read the address.

They’re just rumors. Just baseless accusations formed out of grief and pain. But it’s only an hour away. What harm could come from driving up there?

 

The End

A Full-Circle Moment – 48 Years Later

In 1976, I was just a teenager riding my bike when a group of teenagers recklessly driving around swerved onto the wrong side of the road and even up onto the sidewalk. One of the boys flung his car door open—striking my bike and sending me flying backwards. They drove off laughing, leaving me injured on the pavement.

I was in pain and stunned, but then a woman pulled her car over. She rushed to my side, comforted me, and yelled to a Home Owner nearby to call the Operator—this was before 911 existed. Thanks to my quick instincts on the bike, the injuries weren’t worse, but I’ll never forget that woman who stayed with me until help arrived. She even put a giant band-aid on my leg.

Fast forward to 2024: I was outside a store when I saw a woman slip on the wet pavement. She managed to break her fall by grabbing a truck bumper but was clearly struggling to get up. I ran over to help her, gave her a band-aid for her scraped knee, and let the store manager know to push my cart into refrigeration while I got a blanket and a motorized shopping cart.

I wrapped her in the blanket and walked with her through the store as she picked up her prescriptions and a few essentials. As we got to the checkout, something about her face sparked a memory.

Me: “Did you help someone back in the mid-70s?”

Her: “I dunno.”

Me: “I was on a bike when—”

Her: (eyes lighting up) “Oh my gosh! That’s where I recognize you from!”

Me: “Yeah, that was me!”

Her: (grinning) “KARMAAAAAAAAAAA!” (drawing out the A’s)

By now, the cashier, the bagger, the manager, and nearby customers were all tuned in.

Me (to everyone): “This is the woman who stayed with me after I got hit by a car door in ’76. She even gave me a jumbo sized band-aid!”

Her (to everyone): “And today, I slip in a parking lot and get… this average-sized band-aid in return!” (everyone laughs)

Cashier: “When did she help you?”

Her: “Today! Just a little while ago.”

Cashier: “No, her! When did she help you?”

Me: “1976. At [location].”

Customer: “Wow… small world!”

Store Manager: “That was nearly 48 years ago!”

Me: “Yup.”

Her: “And she was just a teenager! And here I am—an old widowed woman.”

Cincinnati Chili

Have your chili 3, 4 or 5 ways, Cincinnati style. This is also great on hot dogs, smothered with shredded cheese.

Cincinnati Chili

Yield: 5 to 6 servings

Ingredients

Chili

  • 1 1/2 pounds lean ground beef
  • 2 medium onions, chopped
  • 1/2 cup chopped celery
  • 6 cloves garlic, minced
  • 2 tablespoons mild chili powder
  • 1 tablespoon paprika
  • 1 1/2 teaspoons dried basil
  • 1 1/2 teaspoons dried oregano
  • 1 1/2 teaspoons dried thyme
  • 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
  • 1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper
  • 1/2 teaspoon ground cumin
  • 1/2 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes
  • 1/4 teaspoon ground allspice
  • 1/2 teaspoon salt
  • 1/2 teaspoon black pepper
  • 2 (14 1/2 ounce) cans diced tomatoes
  • 1 (8 ounce) can tomato sauce
  • 1/2 cup water

Have It 5 Ways

  • 1 pound spaghetti, cooked
  • 1 medium onion, finely chopped
  • 1 cup finely grated Cheddar cheese
  • 1 (15 1/2 ounce) can kidney beans, rinsed, drained and heated
  • Hot sauce (your favorite)

Instructions

  1. Brown ground beef, onions and celery in a large skillet, drain off all fat.
  2. Place slow cooker ingredients into a slow cooker and stir well. Cover slow cooker and cook for 7 to 9 hours on LOW, or for 3 1/2 to 4 1/2 hours on HIGH, stirring during last part of cooking if using HIGH setting.
  3. Cook spaghetti 1/2 hour before chili is done.
  4. To have chili 3-ways, serve it with spaghetti, chili and cheese.
  5. To have chili 4-ways, serve it with spaghetti, chili, onion and cheese.
  6. To have spaghetti 5-ways, serve it with spaghetti, chili, beans, onion and cheese.
  7. Douse chili liberally with hot sauce, if desired.

Most of the media, even western media, are now saying that Trump had to stand down on his tariffs because China forced the US to blink.

Did China sell 10-year Treasuries on April 8, forcing yields up by 60 basis points, and forcing Trump to reconsider his trade policy.

No, it was not China.

It was Japan.

Japan is the long-abused US partner in Asia, and is also the largest holder of US Treasuries, holding even more than China.

Even though it has been loyal to the US, the US has never treated it as an equal, and has treated it as its main base and platform against China and North Korea.

Now, it looks like Japan is getting tired of the abuse, and is beginning to look after Japan’s own interests, not just the US’s.

Of course, Japanese politicians won’t publicly say anything about this.

Just follow the money; that will tell you what Japanese leaders are really thinking.

Trump has revealed the US to be an old lion, losing against challengers to his leadership.

For practical reasons the leadership is gone: the leadership cry is only something he says to his followers.

The knives are coming out, and Trump’s acolyte US Treasury Secretary Scott Bessent doesn’t know where the next attack is going to come from.

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ksnip 20250326 152945

A Tale of Postal Pandemonium, Apian Fashion, and the Day the Chickens Became Bees

I remember being a kid in the 1960’s.

I want to relate an event that happened around 1966 give or take.

At that time, the big group that all us kids listened to was “The Monkeys” and they had numerous hits.  Their top hits were…

  • “Last Train to Clarksville” (1966)
  • “I’m a Believer” (1966)
  • “Daydream Believer” (1967)

So imagine our happy surprise when we discovered that our cereal boxes had the song on a plastic 45 record attached (glued on) to the box!

All of us kids wanted to eat that cereal. I don’t remember which cereal. Maybe by Kellogg ‘ s or Post.

This is what Gemini AI has to say about this event…

You’re likely thinking about a promotion by Post Cereals in 1970, not the 1960s. While The Monkees were very popular in the late 1960s, the cereal box record promotion happened a bit later.

Here’s what we know about this event:

  • Cereal Brand: Post Cereals.
  • Year: 1970.
  • The Promotion: Post Cereals released a series of four singles featuring The Monkees. These weren’t inside the box, but rather printed directly onto the side of the cereal boxes.
  • Format: These were cardboard records, also known as flexi-discs, designed to be cut out and played on a record player.
  • Songs: The four songs featured in this promotion were:
  • “Last Train to Clarksville”
  • “Words” (Previously Unreleased TV Mix)
  • “I Never Thought It Peculiar” (Previously Unreleased TV Mix)
  • “Valleri” (Previously Unreleased TV Mix)

These cereal box records are now considered collectible items for Monkees fans and those interested in pop culture memorabilia. While the sound quality wasn’t the best, they were a fun and innovative way to promote The Monkees to a younger audience who likely watched their show on Saturday mornings at the time.

It’s interesting to note that Kellogg’s, another major cereal brand, was actually one of the original sponsors of The Monkees’ TV show on NBC in the 1960s. However, the cereal box record promotion was undertaken by their competitor, Post Cereals, in 1970.

And now you know.

So … soon after shopping every house on the street was playing that song. It was surreal.

And that is my daily recount from 1970.

LOL. Today…

Once upon a time (Alcuinese for back in the 1990s) I was part of the team responsible for NHS policy on treatment for overseas visitors. The assumption was that anyone who was not a British resident, an EU national resident in the EU or from a large number of countries with which the UK had reciprocal healthcare agreements was supposed to pay.

But there were exceptions all for very good reasons: people with plague for example or people who had been sectioned under the mental health act. One of those exceptions was people being given emergency treatment in an Accident and Emergency Department (which is British for emergency room).

So there’s the answer. This particular treatment is free at the point of need. The very good reason is this. If somebody has a horrible transmissible disease such as Lassa Fever or Ebola, we don’t want anybody refusing to go to hospital simply because they’re afraid they might have to pay. Similarly, if someone is badly injured in an accident, we don’t want people bleeding out in a back room somewhere when we can treat them, get them well, send them home and so on.

With the present mess the world is in, I thought some of you might be interested in what I’m thinking about.

I think that Trump is putting the US on a dramatic debt reduction plan. The problem is that the debt reduction won’t come from the places he is planning for it to come from, such as China and the US’s trading partners. Instead, the debt reduction is likely to come from US household consumer spending, which will inflict huge pain on most Americans, since they have been told that the US is the best country and society in the world, and will learn that is NOT true.

I also think that AI is going to hit white-collar jobs dramatically, and especially the large US consulting firms, which will start laying off workers and replacing many of their data-crunching jobs with AI. I expect to see a lot of recent MBA grads who can’t find work, even though they have excellent qualifications.

Basically, the combination of AI and economic restructuring will mean that when it comes to consulting, there will be new new, very small consulting firms which will start to rise and attract attention for their work. Why? Because the big firms in the US are like dinosaurs when the meteor hit; they cannot adapt to the new environment.

Small firms will rise to replace them, and the big firms cannot adapt because their costs and fee structure cannot adapt to much tougher times.

The name for this meteor who hit the US is Donald J. Trump.

The center for world innovation and markets will be Asia, with the exception of India. India will never change because it is stuck where it has always been. Indians will lose the avenue of emigrating to the US and Europe because those places have problems.

China is paving the way for the ASEAN countries by showing what can be done in infrastructure and technology development.

China will grow and develop, but at a slower pace than the Chinese government would like. Many Chinese will move to the countryside and become hi-tech farmers living modestly off the land.

BRICS+ and BRI will develop. Russia will continue to develop. Western Europe will have trouble adapting to lower expectations in a hostile world. Central and Eastern Europe will continue to distract their people by supporting ethnic and religious hatred, just as they always have.

I think that there are many opportunities to adapt, and to do new things in this new chaotic world. But in order to survive, one must reject the old and be willing to adapt.

I am thinking of setting up a Discord server if enough people are interested in discussion. Let me know in the comments.

Overheard Girlfriend Telling Friends The Size Of My “Package”, Throws TANTRUM When I Kick Them Out

I am Chinese and know very little about American politics, economy, and history.

But I feel that Trump’s tariff war might be a misstep.

What he’s doing now somewhat resembles what President Hoover did in 1929, and we all know what happened afterward.

Personally, I quite like Trump and think he’s very patriotic, but now I have some doubts.

Because for a politician, mistakes are the greatest sin.

I used to think highly of him; his credentials are impressive: he graduated from the New York Military Academy and the Wharton School at the University of Pennsylvania.

But once, during a meeting with the Japanese Prime Minister, the Japanese Prime Minister brought up the Russo-Japanese War (February 8, 1904 – September 5, 1905).

He foolishly asked, “Who won in the end?”

(A still from a Japan film: An extremely bloody battle fought on Chinese soil during the Russo-Japanese War. Japan emerged victorious and massacred all the Chinese civilians in the city(only 36 people survived). In fact, it had nothing to do with the Chinese; they were simply driven by a beastly thirst for bloody vengeance—unable to invade Russian territory, they slaughtered innocent Chinese civilians instead.)

My God, you’re in charge of the most powerful country in the world, and you don’t even know about a major historical event that any ordinary person should be aware of?

I’m just an average person, with a science and engineering background, and I know the ins and outs of that war (though perhaps because Japan and Russia are neighboring countries to China), but you’re the President of the United States… unbelievable!

Secondly, his tariff war made a huge mistake: it’s a war on all fronts.

Although I’m Chinese, from America’s perspective, it should focus solely on how to suppress China. Why bully your own allies?

Comrade Mao Zedong once said (paraphrasing): The only secret to military struggle is to concentrate your forces, defeat your enemies one by one, and absolutely avoid fighting on two fronts. We can talk big and say we’ll fight on two, three, four, five, six, seven, or eight fronts, but in reality, you JUST can’t fight on two fronts!

But Trump isn’t just fighting on two fronts—he’s declared war on the entire world.

Comrade Mao also said: Politics is about making as many friends as possible and as few enemies as possible.

Trump’s strategy clearly goes against this principle.

Let me give an example: the most anti-China region in the world is Taiwan Province, which is sad but true.

Yet today, I saw on a Taiwanese anti-China BBS that there were actually a ton of pro-mainland comments…

(This forum’s interface is so rudimentary that people from the mainland usually call it the “Hell Forum.”)

It’s simply unimaginable.

But it’s a fact.

Because Trump imposed high tariffs on Taiwan Province too and moved TSMC to the U.S. mainland.

This is a very wrong move.

Today, the CPC, in a very rare move, decisively launched tariff retaliation, which is unusual for such an extremely cautious ruling party.

This is a shrewd and calculating elite party.

I often say: When the CCP sets its mind to something, it has a 90% chance of succeeding.

Based on my trust in the CCP, I think Trump might face a Waterloo this time.

St. Louis Gooey Butter Cake

St. Louis Gooey Butter Cake recipe comes from Rozanek’s Bakery, St. Louis, Missouri. This bakery has been in business for over 60 years.

St. Louis Gooey Butter Cake

Ingredients

  • 1 cup all-purpose flour
  • 3 tablespoons granulated sugar
  • 1/3 cup butter
  • 1 1/4 cups granulated sugar
  • 3/4 cup butter
  • 1/4 cup light corn syrup
  • 1 egg
  • 1 cup all-purpose flour
  • 2/3 cup evaporated milk
  • Confectioners’ sugar

Instructions

Cake

  1. In a mixing bowl, combine 1 cup flour and 3 tablespoons sugar.
  2. Cut in 1/3 cup butter until mixture resembles fine crumbs and starts to cling.
  3. Use a flat bottom measuring cup to pat into the bottom of a 9 inch square baking pan.

Filling

  1. In the mixing bowl, beat the 1 1/4 cups sugar and 3/4 cup butter or butter until combined.
  2. Beat in the corn syrup and egg until just combined.
  3. Add the 1 cup flour and evaporated milk alternately to the mixing bowl, beating until just combined (batter will appear slightly curdled).
  4. Pour into the crust-lined baking pan.
  5. Bake at 350 degrees F for about 35 minutes or until cake is nearly firm when you shake it. It should jiggle slightly in the center
  6. Let cool in pan on wire rack.
  7. Remove to serving plate.
  8. Sprinkle with confectioners’ sugar.

Mostly it’s not understanding the business environment and making fundamental mistakes in a new market.

Walmart came into China with big bang. But how can you convince Chinese buyers to buy products that can be bought locally for much less. Some of their early staff figured out how to do Walmart en masse. So for every location Walmart opens,they open then. They understand the power of speed and scale.

KFC and McDonald’s. KFC locations earn 2–3 times what a McDonald’s location does. Senior management at KFC is local and adapted the menu to local tastes. McDonald’s did not. They are trying to do that now,but it’s too little, too late.

GM and Ford printed huge profits in China for years. Then EVs came. Chinese EVs became dominant players and GM and Ford had no offerings. So sales went way down.

Proctor and gamble were first in the shampoo business. Two of their brands were in the top five. But a local competitor Slek came out of nowhere and took a big chunk of market share.

Starbucks. Again big splash. Locations at the Great Wall and Forbidden city. Until Luckin coffee came. All orders are digital and prices are US$1.50–2.00. And you would be impressed that Starbucks has 7000 locations in China. Until you see Luckin has 22,000.. Locations and scale.

Chinese competitors move very fast and know how to scale fast.

I’ve done consulting for companies entering the China market and my first advice is “You might be big in Baltimore but nothing in Beijing.”

Every business entering a new market needs to have a start up mentality. You don’t know what you’re doing and doing what you did back home may not work.

One Sip Trip

Written in response to: Set your story in a café, garden, or restaurant.

Patrick Druid

One Sip Trip.I stepped off the bus in the middle of town, and got totally soaked by the rain. I tried to shelter myself with the magazine I was reading, but it didn’t help much, so I rushed across the busy, 5 line street to find an awning.The cars honked at me as I sprinted.”Yeah, I know you don’t like me!, I said to them.  I doubt that they could here me in this downpour and I really didn’t care if they did.I had a really hard day at the office today as they say. The boss pulled a bunch of us into a conference and started the usual drone about “making the numbers” and that we would be all out of job, if we didn’t make the numbers.I could feel all of the eyes of the room settling on me as if I had something to do with it. Somebody had to be blamed, I guess and I was it….again! I could never catch a break no matter how hard I tried. The rain really topped of my bad day like the cherry on a banana split. Perfect.I shook my head as I continued to shiver from the rain under the awning of a cafe.”Hey, why don’t you come on in and get warm?” , a voice said.I turned around and saw a blonde woman in her thirties or so, giving me a smile that could light up a room, and her voice had all the home style charm of a freshly baked cookie.I followed her into her cafe. As soon as I walked through the door, I felt the rush of warm air and a smell of cinnamon. I saw two comfortable chairs and small table in front of a fireplace, so I made a beeline for the closest one and sat down.  The chair felt so good, it almost felt like it hugged me.I looked around for a little bit and then I looked back towards the counter where the barista was making a hot drink. I suddenly felt embarrassed that I had sat down on this chair while still being wet and my face fell

“I’m so sorry. I got this chair all wet!”

Again, she smiled at me. “Don’t you worry about it, hun! You’re all cold and wet and you need something warm in you. Here’s a cuppa my finest for ya on the house!”

She placed the cup and saucer on the little side table. I saw the steam rising from the hot reddish liquid inside. As much as I tried to resist the urge to wait to take a sip, I felt strangely drawn to this drink as the scent of apples filled my head.

“Ya had a hard day, huh?”

“Yeah,” I said to her, then I looked up. “How can you tell?”

She laughed. “I’m psychic!”

“Pfft!”

She laughed again..”okay I’m not psychic. You came in wet and you were looking down at the ground most of the time.”.

“It’s just body language, that’s all. Nuthin special”

I nodded my head and took a sip of the drink and it reminded me of a mincemeat pie on Christmas night. I closed my eyes for a bit and just let gravity take me.

“It’s good, huh?”, she said to me softly almost in a barely perceptible whisper. “I made it just for you, hun!”

“Mmmmmmm..hmmmmm” I managed to say before the ambience finally lulled me into a much needed sleep. “Perhaps a few minutes shut eye here won’t hurt”, I said as I reached for the saucer and the cup.

Clouds

I saw clouds

I was sitting in a dusty field overlooking the Grand Canyon. It was dusk and the last rays were disappearing over the horizon. The air was crisp and dry.

I sighed and yawned deeply as I took in the view. I remember thinking that I should take a little trip here one day.

“Beautiful isn’t it?”

“Yeah”, I said then frowned. Who was talking to me? I looked around and I didn’t see anyone.

“Wait , wait wait. Ssshh.” the female voice intoned softly. “It’s totally okay. ”

I continued to look around a bit but saw no one. “Who are you? Where are you?”

“Sorry to bother you but I have news and you’re not going to like it.”

I looked around again and shook my head. “You have news? I don’t even know who you are!”

The voice sighed for a moment and spoke again more quietly. “Who I am isn’t important. I am here to rescue you”

“What?!?”

“Let’s take a good look at your situation and you’ll see why you need me. For starters, you work in the sales department and your department is not meeting the designated numbers, right?”

I slowly nodded.

“Well most corporations by this time have discovered ways to sort of “trim” the ranks without causing too much fuss and attention.”

“Okay….” I said wondering where this was going.

“So..when the corporation decides to find a ‘sacrificial lamb’they make contact with her and set up a ‘meeting’. This way the avoid the termination papers, severance pay, etc

“Her?”

“That barista in the cafe.”

I shook my head at this. “Okay, so they send me to a barista or they send her to me. Weird but so what?” I shrugged my shoulders, or at least I thought I did. I suddenly felt a little cramped.

“Did you notice her name?”

“I think it was Latte or something”

“Starting to feel a little cramped? That means she is got you and we don’t have much time to get you out.”

“What? Get me out of what?”

“Do you trust us?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“What we’re about to do has never been tried before. We are going to try matter transference to get you out of there before your whole consciousness disappears but we have to wait until she has completely wrapped you for storage.”

My eyes went wide……

The voice continued its explanation. “ That tea gave you has a strong sedative and a narcotic, giving you that euphoria you felt.

“Then she wraps you up for safe keeping for awhile, to keep you fresh. Unfortunately, this process does cause the victim to suffocate… slowly.”

“Mmmmmmpppphhghhhhh!”

“Ooooh . Hang on…you’re almost totally wrapped up. When she leaves, we’ll transport your body out.”

I tried to speak but found that could barely get a sound out. I suddenly felt vibrations below me as if I was on a hammock or a rope bridge or.…….a web?

“Mmmmmmpppphhghhhhh!Mmmmmmpppphhghhhhh!!”

Then, I remembered glancing at the sign before I even walked in but it just didn’t register in my mind until now. It read

Lata’s Parlor. Latrodectus. The black widow spider.

“Okay”, the voice said again softly. “We’re almost ready to transport now. You might feel a tingling sensation for a moment.”

I screamed and screamed and screamed the muffled screams of a condemned man about to be taken to his doom. Then I did feel a slight tingling sensation across my chest. Could I be saved?

************

Epilogue

Morning shined down on the town as the businesses opened up for the day. The barista of Lata’s Parlor was sitting at an outside tables, reading a newspaper and sipping a cup of tea. She sighed. “Just the right blend of despair and hope!”

The sign outside read

“Come into Lata’s Parlor! I have just what you need!”

This is a very dangerous weapon.

Well, that is if you’re a TSA agent that has never seen one. And when I tried to explain what this is and what it’s used for, the agent freaked out when I turned it on! Agent thought it was a timer on an explosive! I maintained my composure as I asked the agent to call his supervisor. I’m not certain what he said but within 60 seconds, there was a half dozen folks came running up with airport security in tow. At this point, I was starting to lose my patients with the TSA ‘crew’ since they were adamant that I must be a terrorist with ‘new tech’ and I was detained just long enough to miss my connecting flight. I finally convinced the Airport Security Supervisor to call someone in aircraft maintenance (or the bomb squad) to verify that it was what I said it was and NOT an explosive. Eventually, they realized that they were not only wrong but that their ignorance made TSA look like total morons to everyone in the area. I just assumed that I couldn’t be the only one that ever went through security with a caliper …. I got the feeling that they thought I was deliberately trying to screw with them. Yet they didn’t care that I had a pen and pencil in my breast pocket (guess they never saw first John Wick movie).

Just glad that I didn’t have a digital tape measure!

EDIT – Thank you all for the your views & comments! At the time I felt like the TSA that I encountered had to be an exception, because there was NO way that this was the norm. Obviously (as your comments indicate) this was not an exception!

Wife Spent 17 Years Hiding The Truth About Her Male BF, Now She’ll Spend The Rest Of Her Life Single

Pictures

Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 3(29)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 3(29)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 2(31)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 2(31)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 1(30)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 1(30)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 0(31)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 0(31)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 4(28)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 4(28)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 5(30)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 5(30)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 6(31)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 6(31)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 7(28)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 7(28)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 6(30)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 6(30)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 0(30)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 0(30)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 3(28)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 3(28)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 2(30)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 2(30)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 1(29)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 1(29)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 0(29)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 0(29)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 4(27)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 4(27)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 5(29)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 5(29)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 6(29)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 6(29)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 7(27)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 7(27)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 5(28)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 5(28)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 0(28)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 0(28)
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Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 1(28)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 2(29)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 2(29)
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Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 3(27)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 7(26)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 7(26)
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Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 6(28)
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Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 5(27)
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Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 4(26)
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Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 0(27)
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Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 3(26)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 2(28)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 2(28)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 1(27)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 1(27)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 0(26)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 0(26)
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Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 4(25)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 5(26)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 5(26)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 7(25)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 7(25)
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Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 6(27)
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Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 6(26)
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Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 7(24)
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Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 4(24)
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Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 3(25)
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Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 6(25)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 5(25)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 5(25)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 2(27)
Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 2(27)
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Leonardo Anime XL A hilarious and heartwarming Studio Ghiblist 1(26)

Sir Whiskerton and the Case of the Overqualified Mailman

A Tale of Postal Pandemonium, Apian Fashion, and the Day the Chickens Became Bees


Chapter 1: A Delivery Most Fowl

The trouble began, as trouble often does, with Percy the Postman’s chronic inability to read labels.

The package in question—a suspiciously buzzing wooden crate stamped “DO NOT OPEN: CONTAINS BEES” in letters large enough to be seen from space—had been intended for Beekeeper Beatrice’s apiary. Instead, Percy, sweating through his uniform under the weight of nervousness and poor life choices, deposited it directly into Doris the Hen’s nesting box.

  • “Special… delivery,” Percy panted, tipping his hat before fleeing at speeds previously thought impossible for a man with “Knee Pain: 3/10” on his medical chart.

Doris eyed the crate.

  • “Oooooh,” she clucked, tapping the lid. “A mystery!”

Harriet and Lillian (Doris’s ever-loyal entourage) leaned in.

  • “It says not to open it,” Harriet pointed out.
  • “Not to!” Lillian echoed, already fetching a crowbar.

Doris waved a dismissive wing.

  • “Pish-posh! That’s just suggestion font!”

And with that, she pried the lid open.


Chapter 2: The Bees-ness of Being Doris

The instant the crate creaked ajar, three things happened in rapid succession:

  1. Four hundred very confused honeybees erupted into the coop like a striped, buzzing tornado.
  2. Doris, in a startling display of creativity, declared “We’re bees now!” and began fashioning costumes from straw and stolen button thread.
  3. Boris the Super-Skunk arrived at full hero velocity, cape flapping, shouting “FEAR NOT, CITIZENS! I SHALL NEUTRALIZE THE BEE MENACE!”

Sir Whiskerton, roused from his nap by the unholy sound of chickens attempting to buzz, arrived just in time to see:

  • Doris sporting antennae made of pipe cleaners.
  • Lillian fainting into a pollen-covered nesting box.
  • Boris preparing to “deploy countermeasures” (a.k.a. spray the bees).
  • “STOP,” Sir Whiskerton yowled, leaping between Boris and the hive. “You’ll gas the chickens!”

Boris paused.

  • “…That’s not ideal,” he admitted.

Chapter 3: Beekeeper Beatrice’s Bad Day

Beekeeper Beatrice arrived in a flurry of netting and despair, her bee smoker belching frantic puffs of lavender smoke.

The scene before her:

  • The Hens, now fully committed to their bee personas, bobbing from flower to flower (read: pecking at dandelions).
  • Boris, heroically offering to “flavor the honey with peppery zest.”
  • Sir Whiskerton, attempting to herd actual bees with a soup ladle.
  • “This is un-bee-lievable,” Beatrice sighed, pressing her hands to her temples.

Doris fluttered over (or rather, flapped awkwardly while humming).

  • “Behold, sister bee! We are buzzworthy now!” she announced, adjusting her “stinger” (a toothpick taped to her tail).

Beatrice stared.

  • “Those are honeybees. You’re chickens.”
  • “Allegedly,” Doris sniffed.

Chapter 4: The Resolution (With Extra Pollen)

The solution, as it turned out, was obvious:

  1. Bribery: A supreme offering of sugar water lured the bees back into their crate.
  2. Distraction: Boris redirected his spray ambitions toward “making the flowers extra spicy.”
  3. Fashion Intervention: Bessie the Tie-Dye Cow convinced Doris that “bee aesthetic is so last season” with a new line of “Moth Couture.”

As Beatrice hauled the bees away (shooting daggers at Percy, who was hiding in a mailbag), Sir Whiskerton delivered his final verdict:

  • “Let this be a lesson: Curiosity is fine—unless it unleashes insectoid chaos.”

Doris, now moth-winged and unrepentant, clucked:

  • “But look how fabulous we look!”

(Lillian, still pollen-drunk, hiccuped in agreement.)

Moral: Curiosity is great—unless it involves live insects (or Postal Workers Who Can’t Read).

The End.


Key Jokes:

  • “Un-bee-lievable” pun
  • Doris’ “buzzworthy” delusions
  • Boris’ “peppery zest” honey ambitions
  • Percy’s “Knee Pain: 3/10” sprinting

Starring: Percy (overqualified failure), Doris (bee-chicken visionary), Boris (overzealous skunk).

P.S. Beatrice now labels her hives “NOT FOR CHICKENS” in 48-point font. 🐝📦

Trump’s administration is in a game of chicken with China. We don’t know if any side will blink. China has said it will fight to the end.

I am not sure if this constitutes a psychological war. I rather think it is Trump’s swagger and shock that China would fight back so hard and without hesitation, contrary to his experience during his first term. He cannot accept that US is now weaker, and China is now stronger.

China’s fight back is tariffs + non-tariff sanctions.

The tariff rates from each side are very high, high enough to become meaningless.

China is prepared to decouple with the US. It is self-reliant on US tech. It has other sources of supply of agriculture and energy goods it imports from the US. It can easily do its foreign transactions without the use of the dollar. China is thus in a strong position

Trump is doing all the shootings, apparently without regard to consequences, including for the Americans, viz rising prices and shortages of goods. These will bite deeper and deeper with time.

The financial markets are in a turmoil. There are growing fears of recession amid the inflation and threatening towards stagflation. Neither the federal government nor the Fed has instruments to fight this.

So, it is truly a trade war between the 2 countries. For the US, it is the biggest part of its tariff war with the world.

China has also the advantage of national unity. It is being shot at and is seen as the good guy at home and abroad. The reverse is true for the US. There are reports of protests in several parts of the country.

Cheating Ex Girlfriend Suffers the Consequences

Nostalgia Cafe

Written in response to: Set your story in a café, garden, or restaurant.

Nick DeLarso

“Welcome to Nostalgia Cafe!” a gentle voice proclaimed as the front door had come to a close. The inside was immensely dystopian, though Steven shrugged aside the eerie forewarning. He approached the counter apprehensively, craning his neck in every-which direction.“I’m Steven Ross, with Blueprint Media. I’m here for the investigative piece regarding the spike in nostalgia intake.” Steven pressed his tote bag close to his waist, reaching inattentively with an attempt at removing a piece of identification from the front pocket. “I must’ve left it in the car, let me run and..-“The voice cut him off: “Oh yes, nice to meet you Steven; we’ve been expecting you, do not worry.” The voice was becoming, and she smiled incessantly as she spoke. “My name’s Desire, and I’ll be showing you around.”From his initial perspective, Steven saw dozens of people, enveloped inside of a small, cubicle-like space, attached to a device that cradled their skull, similar to a rugby helmet. They were motionless, radiated by a blue hue that barely illuminated the darkness, revealing a brief glimpse of their inanimate visages. Besides the conversation at the front desk, you could have heard a pin drop in the cafe. Steven removed a small notepad, immediately beginning to jot down some of his findings.“How long have you worked here?” Steven turned towards the employee, Desire, and attempted to exude some mirth.“Since the beginning. It’s a lovely work environment. Would you like to see one of the empty realms? I can explain how they work.”“Lead the way.” Steven trailed behind Desire, gently maneuvering through the tight spaces between the boxes. At a closer look, drool could be seen accumulating around the corner of the patron’s lips where a clear-feeding tube connected, to which his brow furrowed with an inquisitive glare. “Are these people conscious?” Steven spoke quietly, finally arriving at their destination.“You can call it that. Their bodily functions are still intact, they are just not present inside of this realm, if that makes sense. These neurocaps, as we call them, attach to the top of your skull. Of course, these are only compatible with the folks who have had the neuroconduit implant, which is a percentage that is gaining great traction every day. These caps, similar to bluetooth, have the ability to hijack your current consciousness, subjecting you to your fondest memories, or the fondest memories of others. As you might know, nostalgia is one of the greatest feelings known to mankind; it is essentially our brain recognizing the greatest and most memorable moments of our lifetime. This has ten-times the dopamine release as opium without the physical ailments that follow usage.” Desire did not budge from her smiling disposition during her explanation.“Interesting…” Steven was notating along with her spiel, underlining certain-important factors for later reporting. “So what you’re describing is essentially a drug, if I’m deciphering this correctly?”“We believe drug is a harsh term; this, as we see it, is a cure for the lack of excitement in modern life. It allows the youth to witness a world, free of technology’s grasp, ironically enough. When kids played outside, without the need for social media or others’ validations. Or even, someone living out their childhood dreams! I know it seems counterproductive, but as you and the rest of the world know, technology is not going anywhere. If this reality will not supply happiness to humanity, we will have to use the most powerful tool in the Universe: the brain.”Steven frowned momentarily, though his optimism had seemingly grown from its initial state of uncertainty with her response. “So you see this as a fix to the current state of life? Why not use this message to promote life outside of these helmets, rather than shackling the people to this technology? I know you said it’s not going anywhere, but there is always the margin for change.” Steven pressed the top of the pen against his lips, again studying some of the people hooked up to the cap.

“This Nation is no longer a Democracy, Steven. We have eclipsed that and have entered a Technocracy. The most powerful people on the planet own our search data, our health records; they’ve created algorithms for just about each individual on this planet and know how to affect our daily lives. They have discovered that our conscience is no more than a computer itself, with the ability to be hacked and structured in any way seen fit, especially if they’re in control of our gene structures and our conscious way of thought. We here are allowing individuals to use their brain and decide for themselves where their happiness lies—even if that is in someone else’s glory.”

Steven took a moment. Being thirty-five years old in the year 2030, he attempted to recollect his past before cell phones and the internet. It seemed foreign to even conclude that there was a time where people did not have a device attached to their hand, better yet their heads; but somehow, he remembered how bright the Sun used to shine on early mornings during Summer break; or the feeling of the brisk Fall, torpedoing through the Summer’s humidity on a random, late-September night as they awaited their parent’s voices to call them inside for dinner.

Most importantly, he reflected on his longing to become a Journalist as a child, watching the news with his Father, who was also a Journalist, and how he would critique their substandard reporting. It nearly brought a tear to his eye, finally materializing such a fantasy as his own. And there it was, just experienced in that paramount thought: nostalgia. How potent it was, forever just out of reach physically, but always nestled inside the warmest parts of our memory, ready to resurface in an instant at the most unexpected moment.

“How are you able to create these fond memories?” Steven began writing once again, in preparation for the response.

“Well, some people have the privilege to vividly remember a memory, like a movie; others, they write down a certain fragrance, or sound, or sentence—we’re able to take this data and create an exact match to what they’re pining for. If it doesn’t work initially, we will continue to attempt at creating this exact match. Once the match is made, the cap will sense that nostalgia is beginning to stimulate metabolic activity and blood flow in several regions of the brain, particularly the frontal, limbic, paralimbic, and midbrain areas. From here, the memory is projected into the brain; this data is downloaded into our servers, and the cycle of nostalgia is created for those who have never experienced these certain perspectives of life.”

Steven was flabbergasted, and his hands began to shake as he wrote the correspondence down. “How long do some of these people spend here?” He once again would gander abroad to all of the inhabited nooks.

“As long as needed. Some people, they never leave the benevolent loop of nostalgia. We’ve even seen people create new nostalgia within the neurocap. People who could never achieve their dreams; maybe they didn’t have the funds, or a tragedy struck. The inner-consciousness of the neurocap is expanding. It’s very exciting progress.” Desire responded candidly.

“That is pretty amazing. There must be a cost, no?” Steven’s pen moved within a serpentine, his hand sliding eloquently across the page.

“That’s the kicker: Nostalgia Cafe is a self-funding tool. As you opt to upload your own Nostalgia, you are generating Nostalgia Coins with your own brain’s energy! These can be used at any Nostalgia Cafe, worldwide. Nostalgia Coins can be converted into any of the prominent Cryptocurrencies. We are projected to become the largest within the next five-years at this pace.”

“Wouldn’t the financial aspect cause a bit of conflict with the intent? Couldn’t the creator simply lock people in, for financial gain? And how does one exit this concocted neuro-realm?” Steven’s tone was reticent, nearly rhetoric.

“The same way you’ve entered. All you must do is exit the Nostalgia Cafe. No one is forced to stay.” Desire’s response was ambiguous, though Steven did not retort. This was the first time her smile departed, but only for a second.

Steven felt the danger of this revolving door, essentially supplying your own means to disassociate from the current world; however, there was an enticing nature within this scientific discovery. He knew the reason he was sent here in the first place, to immerse himself into this newly-discovered world, head-first, as a respected Journalist. “I actually have the neuroconduit myself; many of us at Blueprint had received the chip initially, for faster data processing.” He looked over his notebook endearingly. “You know, it was always a dream of mine to be a Journalist—to get the chance to break-open a story, just like my Father—to really expose the truth.” There was an incessant memory that prodded at Steven’s attention span, though he tried to ignore it.

“Nostalgia awaits you, Steven.” Desire took a step aside, displaying the open space in its entirety.

Steven gulped at Desire’s words, followed by the racing of his heart. Steven took a step forward, grabbing hold of the chair to alleviate the wobbling of his legs. “I’m not sure, this sounds a bit..dangerous, no?”

“There’s no danger in the past.” Desire’s voice was stern.

Steven looked towards the front door, which was engulfed by a fog, distorting anything past the windowpane. “Weather seems nasty outside; I guess it wouldn’t hurt to try for a few minutes, for journalistic measures.” Steven sat down reluctantly, rubbing his hands along the arms of the leather chair. In his hands, he cupped the mechanism that would supply himself with endless elation; and that aforementioned memory, it was prying once again to be remembered, just before the helmet could be placed upon his skull.

“I’ll see you again, Steven. And thank you for your loyalty to Nostalgia Cafe.” Desire sauntered away from his space, still smiling.

“Wait a minute!” Steven stopped Desire in her tracks, to which she turned to face him once more. “I know you said all you have to do is leave; but how do you know you’re no longer in the actual realm?” Steven had a question mark and an asterisk next to this question.

“Once the memory is complete.” And she continued toward the front desk.

“Loyalty?”… Steven thought it odd she would allude to such, as this was his first visit; nonetheless, he continued as planned: Steven quickly placed the neurocap upon his head before he closed his eyes shut; then, he took a dozen or so deep breaths, to clear what was unnecessarily cluttered within his mind. It was only moments before he would return to that other realm of nostalgia, one filled with anachronistic promises and emancipation from a world of deceit.

“Welcome to Nostalgia Cafe!”

Wisconsin-Style French Onion Soup

While you might imagine French onion soup in a Parisian brasserie, Wisconsin-Style French Onion Soup is the ultimate at-home meal to soothe your worries and warm your soul from the inside. Stacked high with sweetly caramelized onions, crusty bread and piles of melted cheese, it’s hard to imagine anything better.

Wisconsin-Style French Onion Soup

Active time: 40 min | Yield: 8 servings, 1 cup each

Ingredients

  • 5 tablespoons butter, cubed and divided
  • 3 pounds medium onions, halved and thinly sliced
  • Salt and pepper
  • 1 teaspoon granulated sugar
  • 12 ounces lager beer
  • 4 cups (1 quart) beef broth
  • 8 ounces pretzel rolls, buns or bread, cubed
  • 10 ounces Blaser’s Mild Wisconsin Brick cheese, shredded (2 1/2 cups)

Instructions

  1. Melt 4 tablespoons butter in a Dutch oven over low heat. Add onions; cook, covered, for 15 minutes, stirring occasionally.
  2. Season with salt and pepper. Stir in sugar. Cook, uncovered, over medium heat for 35 to 40 minutes or until onions are deep brown, stirring frequently.
  3. Gradually stir in beer; allow soup to boil. Reduce heat; simmer, uncovered, for 2 to 3 minutes.
  4. Stir in beef broth. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat to medium-low. Simmer, uncovered, for 25 to 30 minutes longer or until broth is slightly reduced, stirring occasionally.
  5. Meanwhile, heat oven to 400 degrees F.
  6. Melt remaining 1 tablespoon butter; toss butter with pretzel bread on a 15 x 10 inch baking pan. Season with salt and pepper. Bake for 5 to 7 minutes or until bread is toasted, turning once.
  7. Ladle soup into eight ovenproof serving bowls. Top each with bread cubes; sprinkle with brick.
  8. Broil 3 to 4 inches from the heat for 2 to 3 minutes or until cheese is melted.

Notes

Brick cheese is a Wisconsin original. Traditional aged or German-style brick has a beige smear on its surface; the color darkens and flavor intensifies with age. Trimming the rind reduces its aroma and flavor.

  • Don’t try to “escape from a desert island” – you’ll almost certainly die before anyone finds you.
  • In Australia, there is no need to try to “identify or catch the snake that bit you” – antivenom is universal.
  • “Punching the biggest guy on your first day in prison” is not a good idea if you want to survive there.
  • If you are driving during a tornado warning, do not get out of your car and go to the side of an overpass to “hide under the bridge.” This myth was made popular by an amateur video of a man and his daughter hiding under an overpass, but the overpass they chose had an unusual design that provided them with protection. Wind speeds increase the closer you get to the ground, and the narrow passage creates a wind tunnel effect that can send any debris picked up by the tornado hurtling straight ahead at speeds of over 200 miles per hour.
  • If you are stranded on a desert island, it is not a good idea to “build a raft” and sail to civilization. You will probably never be found, or you will become so dehydrated that you will almost certainly die. You should stay on the island and be found alive.
  • If you get lost or your car breaks down, walk to a safe place. Stay in your car. People can always find your car, but that’s not always the case when you’re alone. Unless there’s an imminent danger, like a wildfire or flood, stay still. Walking around uses a lot of energy and puts you at higher risk of injury or even getting lost. Your car is a refuge and much easier for rescuers to find.
  • Do not drink “cactus water” – it is not drinkable and may cause vomiting and diarrhea, making you more dehydrated.
  • If you are truly suffering from diarrhea, it’s not just about “drinking water” – you will also lose a lot of salt and electrolytes, and if you don’t replenish them, it can be really serious.
  • “To find water, follow the birds.” They are flying everywhere.

It was on Tuesday, September 11, 2001, early in the morning in California. My wife called from Massachusetts (we were briefly bicoastal) and told me to turn on the TV. All channels were the same: videos of an airplane crashing into a tall building. The commentary said the plane was AA11. I felt my spine turn to jelly as I realized it was my flight.

I had to fly coast-to-coast from Logan to LAX and back a few times yearly. I always took AA11 West and AA12 East on Tuesdays, invariably, no matter what else was going on. At the last moment, as I was making my reservations, my wife convinced me to change to Saturday so my son would not be alone in California as much. I argued against the change, but you must know my wife to know I would lose that argument.

I still shudder as I recall that moment, seeing the flames burst from the building. I would have been among those cremated alive had my wife not decided that my son needed my company.

That was no bullet I dodged. It was a 14-inch projectile from a battleship.

A Tale of Canine Choirs, Mystical Flatulence, and the Night the Dogs Said “Moo”

You know as well as I do that if it’s Chinese, then it’s going to be the best. The USS Gerald Ford is new but based on the Nimitz hull, so it’s going to have similar but better performance.

The Chinese aircraft carrier, known as “the largest and most advanced aircraft carrier ever built by the Chinese,” is not a joke. It’s also one of a kind because this is the first and last of its kind. It’s clear that it’s going to have a few issues that the Chinese are not sharing.

The Fujian launched in 2022 and is still undergoing sea trials. It just requires time to install amazing Chinese technology that is yet to be invented. We don’t have the performance Figures of either vessel since one is not fully operational and the details of the other is classified. We do know that the Chinese will have the better numbers because it’s Chinese and they would never lie.

Fujian specifications is similar to the USS

Tis still an upgrade because China two operational aircraft carriers are based on the Russian aircraft carrier that nobody can detect due to the mysterious cloud of smoke that emits from it.

they say sonar can detect the Russian aircraft carrier…

Man Discovers His Wife Was Planning To Divorce Him And Take EVERYTHING, So He Outsmarted Her

We were on a crowded international flight from Germany to the US. We were in boarding group 4, so we got to our seats and put one bag a piece in the overhead. The plane started filling up, yet no one was in the window seat next to us. All the overheads filled up. At the last minute, a rather rough-looking woman came down the aisle She opened the overhead bin over my head took my small backpack out, and placed it on the floor. She then kicks my bag back a row or two down the aisle. I start to stand up to ask her WTH, then she sees me and says- “ Can I have your seat? I prefer that one.” I say no and ask her to return my bag to the overhead. We call the flight attendant, and everyone around us is commenting, Oh no, A crazy lady, etc. The FA comes to our seat, and we explain what is happening. The women just said- I put my bag in and he wants to remove it and out his in. All of the surrounding seats chime in. Then, the guy behind me leans over and tells me, “I have room in the bin over my head; you can put your bag in there.” That diffused the situation. Her assigned seat was the window seat next to us, so we got to fly across the Atlantic next to the crazy lady. The whole way she kept ringing the FA and insisting I give her my seat. The FA finally got a cockpit crewmember to come out and tell the woman that if she did not stop, they would have her arrested when we arrived. That finally worked and she shut up for the rest of the flight.

Chicago Hot Dogs

These “dogs” bring back wonderful memories of wandering around Maxwell Street in Chicago in the 60s and 70s. It was never difficult to find a street vender hawking these Chicago Dogs. I can remember the smells just looking at the picture of a Chicago Dog. Never leave the celery salt off the Chicago Dogs! They won’t be the same. I guarantee it.

Chicago Hot Dogs recipe

Yield: 6 hot dogs

The “dragged through the garden” style is heavily promoted by Vienna Beef and Red Hot Chicago, the two most prominent Chicago hot dog manufacturers, but exceptions are common, with vendors adding cucumber slices or lettuce, omitting poppy seeds or celery salt.

Ingredients

  • 6 split hot dog buns
  • 3 tablespoons melted unsalted butter
  • 1 tablespoon + 1 teaspoon poppy seeds
  • 6 all-beef hot dogs
  • 6 dill pickle spears
  • 12 tomato wedges or 18 slices tomato
  • Yellow mustard
  • Sweet relish
  • 1 small white onion, finely chopped
  • 6 pepperoncini or sport peppers (optional)
  • Celery salt

Instructions

  1. Brush outsides of buns with butter; sprinkle with poppy seeds.
  2. Bake, split sides down, at 350 degrees F until warm, about 5 minutes.
  3. Warm hot dogs in boiling water for 5 minutes; transfer to buns.
  4. Arrange a pickle on one side of each hot dog and 2 tomato wedges or 3 tomato slices (more, if desired) on the other side.
  5. Squirt mustard over each in a zigzag; top with a dollop of relish.
  6. Divide onion among hot dogs.
  7. Top each with a pepperoncino or sport pepper, if desired.
  8. Sprinkle with celery salt.

Notes

When I make these I always use kosher hot dogs.

Never use ketchup on Chicago Dogs!

Jes Oakheart

Captain Fletch knew she was walking into a trap, but she couldn’t help herself. She and her Engineering Officer, Paola, and Weapons Officer, Jenkins, stood on the bridge of the Starling Sunstrider waiting for the ship’s scanners to verify the distress call they’d received. Fletch was quite familiar with the supposedly derelict ship that floated aimlessly nearby. The distress call from the Bittern Blight said the crew had abandoned the vessel and stole the two escape pods, but not before removing the antimatter synthesizer, rendering the ship unable to fly and taking life support offline. Supposedly, Captain Quill was the only soul to remain aboard and she was gravely injured.The monitor flashed as the scanners completed their check. “Life support is down and both pods have been deployed,” Fletch confirmed. “Onboard temperatures have dropped significantly. My guess is that they’ve got an hour at most before the remaining oxygen is gone.”“Your orders?” Jenkins asked.Fletch chewed her lip. It certainly had to be a trap. She’d not been warring against Quill for the last decade for it all to be over because her crew mutinied. Quill was too smart, too calculated. She guessed that Quill’s crew were in their spacesuits, the Mechanical Officer lingering in the engine room ready to turn on life support the moment after they’d lured Fletch onboard. Surely they all laid in wait, plasma pistols charged and ready to go. Fletch had to give Quill some credit for the brilliance of her strategy. Who could resist the siren’s song of an enemy’s distress beacon?But just as Fletch was about to issue the order to leave the Bittern and jump to hyperspace, the comm screen lit up and a chime indicated an incoming call. It was Quill. Fletch rolled her eyes and cleared her throat. “This ought to be good.” She tapped the button to answer the call and crossed her arms.The screen illuminated with Quill’s face, though the bridge of the Bittern was darker than usual and she was difficult to make out. “I hardly believed it when I saw it was you,” she said, her voice hoarse and weak. She was not wearing a spacesuit nor had any supplemental oxygen.“I’m not falling for it, Quill,” Fletch glowered. “Pack up your little ruse and I’ll consider not blowing you out of the sky.”“I’m surprised you’re even here,” Quill said, groaning and shifting her weight in her chair. “Last I heard you were in the Daxalon Nebula. You were the only ship to respond to my distress call.”Fletch squinted her eyes at the image of Quill on the monitor. She’d spoken with her many times through the comms, yet she’d never seen Quill so disheveled. She seemed to actually be in pain.“Look,” Quill continued, “I’ve been shot. Life support is down. My crew abandoned me. Ship’s disabled. If you’re going to blow me out of the sky, do it.” Fletch exchanged glances with Paola and Jenkins. “I know you hate me. I’d hate me too. But like I said, you were the only one to respond to my distress call. Is this really how you want our war to end? Me dying at the hands of a crew that hadn’t been paid in months? If you won’t help me, at least come over here and deal the final blow yourself. I surrender. You win.”The comm went dark as Quill ended the call. A strange and uncomfortable sensation welled up within Fletch. There was something sincere in Quill’s tone and facial expression. Though the captain’s instincts urged her to leave the Bittern in the dust, she was thoroughly tempted by Quill’s offer to look her in the eye and kill her. A rivalry that began in flight school and had escalated to a decade of deep space battles, subterfuge, and endless mocking calls on the comms might finally come to an end. And Fletch wanted it to be a poetic, epic ending. She’d spent too much time thinking of nothing but besting Quill. Even though it might be a trap, Fletch couldn’t resist.

“I’m getting suited up,” she said with a long-suffering sigh. “Paola, I want an escort of no less than ten. Jenkins, I want every gun trained on that ship.”

“Aye,” Paola and Jenkins said in unison. Fletch knew they did not approve of this plan. Yet they’d stood by her through many years of back-and-forth battles with Quill and accepted that being part of her crew meant obliging the captain’s thirst for victory.

Fletch retreated to her private quarters to don her spacesuit. She needed a moment alone. On the off chance that this wasn’t a trap and that her war with Quill had reached its end, she tried to imagine what life would be like without her mortal enemy lingering in the shadows, waiting for her to misstep. What would she do if she wasn’t exacting revenge on the woman who’d wiped out half the colony on Everron 7 where she’d grown up? Though that was the most grievous of Quill’s offenses, their war didn’t start there.

It started in flight school, not the one on the central planets, but the one on Jupiter’s moon Europa. Though the star system that contained the First Earth had largely been abandoned, a few older outposts remained. The Europa flight school cost much less than the one on Haversol, a draw for both Fletch and Quill who grew up on newly colonized frontier planets. Both girls were smart, oversaturated with aptitude and an insatiable desire for success. They fought fiercely against one another for the best grades, placements with the top instructors, and internships on the biggest battlecruisers.

What began as an academic rivalry became much higher stakes when the pair of them graduated with honors and immediately found work on opposing sides of a squabble in the Hyperion Galaxy. They rose through the ranks until they were able to afford their own spaceships and free themselves from fighting other people’s wars. Across their time on Europa and in Hyperion, they’d become obsessed with outdoing the other. It became their purpose, their life’s mission. They chased each other through the cosmos firing their guns at one another, blowing up sentimental places the other cherished, and taunting each other endlessly through the comms.

And now, a decade later, it might be coming to an end.

Fletch bundled her curly hair at the nape of her neck and tucked it into the collar of her spacesuit. She glanced at herself in the mirror, noticing the bags under her eyes and the wrinkles on her forehead. She was only in her thirties, but she looked much older. The war with Quill had exhausted her.

She put two fresh charge packs into her pistol and holstered the weapon at her side. She pressed the button to extend the spacesuit’s helmet over her head. The dome clicked into place with a hiss of air and she was ready.

Leaving her quarters, Fletch met her ten armed crew members at the airlock. Their orders were simple– the crew would secure the Bittern while Fletch went to the bridge to find Quill. Shoot on sight. Take no prisoners. This was a war, after all.

Fletch opened the airlock and a gust of wind flushed from the Starling into the Bittern. She wondered how long the crew of the Bittern had been shivering without life support, waiting for the trap to be sprung.

The automated voice of the Bittern echoed through the tunnel connecting the two ships: “Life support failure.” Fletch heard the repeating warning faintly in the background during her comm call with Quill, but she didn’t expect to feel so unnerved when they finally boarded the ship. The warning was one no star-farer ever wanted to hear, even if it was a farce.

They stepped through the opening and onto the Bittern’s main deck. The emergency lights were flickering and everything was quiet aside from the repeating message that life support was down. Fletch examined the monitor at her wrist, checking the oxygen levels and determining them to still be habitable, particularly with an open connection to the Starling.

“Keep your wits about you,” she said as the crew dispersed.

It was surreal to be on Quill’s turf. Their battles always took place in the vacuum of space or on various planets or moons. They never boarded one another’s vessel. It was more intimate than Fletch thought it would be. How many times had Quill walked these hallways? What conversations had she entertained in these rooms? She passed through the mess hall, noticing dirty dishes still lingering on the tables. She glanced at one of the plates, wondering what Quill and her crew ate when they weren’t planet-side. Spaghetti and meatballs by the looks of it. An old comfort dish from the First Earth. So simple, so plain. So human.

Fletch’s earbud crackled as one of her crew checked in. “The cargo hull is clear.” Then not long after, another message came through. “The engine room is clear. Confirming a missing antimatter synthesizer.” Fletch’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Maybe it wasn’t a trap after all. Maybe Quill had told them the truth. She’d find out soon enough.

Fletch tightened her grip on her pistol as she opened the door to the bridge. It was empty save for the captain’s seat at the helm. All she could see of Quill was the high bun she coiled her hair into, just peeking up from the back of the chair. There was a puddle of blood on the floor below her.

“The crew quarters and med bay are clear,” her crew reported through the earbud.

“So you really did come to see me one last time,” Quill said, her back to Fletch. “At least look me in the eye when you do it. Shooting me in the back of the head is hardly worth the effort of coming over here. Make it a good story at least.”

Fletch saw that the med kit by the door had been opened and a trail of blood led back to the captain’s chair. The emergency spacesuit on the rack against one of the walls had bloody handprints on it. Quill had tried to don the spacesuit but was too injured to do so. A pistol lay abandoned on the floor, indicating that Quill was unarmed.

Fletch’s earbud chirped again. “The ship is clear. No crew aboard. Both escape pods deployed. Your orders, Captain?”

“By now I’m sure your people have informed you that this isn’t a trap,” Quill said, as if she’d been able to sense the communication Fletch had just received.

Fletch was speechless, both to her crew asking for orders and to her rival bleeding out. She gripped her pistol and approached Quill’s chair, wondering what it would be like to finally meet her face-to-face again after all these years. She noticed a hand-knit blanket lying on the floor and a heavily worn copy of The Hobbit next to it. Print books were rare and difficult to find, especially ones originating from the First Earth. She passed around the side of Quill’s seat and faced her.

Quill was wearing gray sweatpants and a black tank top, her hair thrown up into the messiest topknot Fletch had ever seen. She clutched a wad of gauze to her belly, blood dripping from it and onto her sweats. She was shivering, her gooseflesh skin sallow where it wasn’t crimson.

Quill started down the barrel of Fletch’s gun defiantly. Yet, Fletch did not shoot. The voice on the other end of Fletch’s earbud once again asked for orders. She ignored it. Then, of all things, she lowered her gun and tapped the button to retract the helmet of her spacesuit. It had been years since she’d seen Quill through anything but a comm display and she felt she owed her rival one last look at her face.

“Do you remember the atmospheric physics class we took in our second year?” Quill asked. “The one taught by Professor Walen?”

“Yes. What about it?”

“Do you remember when she promised a letter of commendation to the student who could earn the highest mark and our whole study group turned on one another?”

Fletch stifled a laugh. “I remember Arne dumping a protein shake onto my keyboard. They just gave me a new one.”

“It was so dumb,” Quill bantered. Then she shifted uncomfortably in her chair and shivered.

Fletch wondered why Quill wasn’t wrapped in the blanket lying on the floor. She thought for a moment about picking it up and handing it to her, but then realized it was pointless given the circumstances.

“Do you regret it? Any of this?” Quill asked. Fletch wasn’t sure how to answer. “I do,” Quill continued in the silence. “How embarrassing to have made it as far as I have, only to have my crew mutiny and abandon me. I guess that’s what happens when you put all your focus onto an end goal with no consideration for how to get there.”

“You didn’t pay your crew, what did you expect would happen?” Fletch scoffed.

“I know. I flew too close to the sun.”

“That’s a terrible metaphor given that you’re freezing on a ship that can’t fly.”

“If you could get a do-over, one do-over, what would you fix?” Quill asked, ignoring the jab. Fletch shrugged. Quill gazed at her and then sighed. “It doesn’t matter now. Thank you, I suppose, for visiting me one last time and giving me the dignity of seeing your face before you kill me. It’s been an honor, Captain Fletch.” She sat up as best she could and saluted her rival. “Good war. I am ready for it to be done.”

“Captain, your orders?” Fletch’s earbud buzzed for a third time.

Fletch was uneasy, a pain in her stomach filling her with dread and sour bile. There was something so wrong about all of this. This wasn’t the victory she wanted. This was just sad. But beyond that, as she pictured a life going forward, one in which Quill was not there, it felt surprisingly empty. What would she do without someone to chase through the galaxies? Her entire life revolved around Quill and she wasn’t sure what she’d do without her. Her purpose had been to destroy Quill, but now that the moment had arrived, she didn’t want it.

Fletch tapped her computer cuff, finally responding to her crew’s inquiries. “Return to the Starling. Prep the OR for surgery and notify Dr. Hammond. Plasma gun wound to the abdomen, major blood loss.”

“Are you injured, Captain?” somebody asked through the earbud. “Shall we send a stretcher?”

“No and no. I’ll bring her myself.”

“Excuse me?” Paola interjected. “Are you bringing Captain Quill onboard?”

“Yes,” Fletch replied, taking a deep breath and studying Quill’s face. “This war is over.”

“No, no,” Quill protested as Fletch holstered her gun and walked over to the knit blanket on the floor. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do,” Fletch retorted. She picked up the blanket and approached Quill. “Can you stand?”

“No,” Quill whispered.

Fletch nodded, her eyes soft and face calm. She bundled Quill in the blanket and then lifted her up and cradled the woman in her arms. Quill gave up the fight and accepted rescue.

“Wait,” Quill mumbled as they began to leave the bridge. “My book. It’s rare, I spent forever trying to find it.”

Fletch understood. This was the last time Quill would see her ship. Once they were evacuated, it would be scavenged and scrapped by brigands. A ship without its captain or crew was easy pickings. Fletch lowered Quill just enough for the injured woman to grab The Hobbit off the floor. Quill clutched the book to her chest.

Then Fletch carried Quill out of the Bittern. They moved through the passageways and the mess hall, Quill peering around at her ship for the last time. Fletch looked down at the woman in her arms. It was perhaps the closest they’d been to each other since that one night back in the dorms on Europa. Quill rested her head against her rescuer’s collarbone. How had their rivalry begun? They had been friends before they were enemies. It was more than just competitive classwork that ruined their connection. Then Fletch remembered, gazing at Quill’s face so close that she could lean down and kiss her.

Fletch had broken Quill’s heart, rejected her after they’d shared one single night of intimacy. She wasn’t ready for a relationship with another woman. She cared a great deal for Quill, but she was scared. Quill had been in love and did not take the rejection well, seeking out revenge in its wake. That’s where it all started. And though Fletch thought she hated Quill, she reminded herself that hate and love often feel the same.

The opposite of love is indifference. Even a galaxy away, she bolted to the Bittern the moment Quill’s distress call went out. She was the only one to come to Quill’s aid. And here she was, personally carrying Quill to safety. They’d been obsessed with each other for a decade and Fletch’s world revolved around Quill. Wasn’t it obvious why? Sometimes it’s easier to hate than it is to love.

Fletch squeezed Quill in her arms as they crossed back onto her ship, the nearest thing to a hug either had shared in quite some time. She felt Quill’s body relax, comforted by the closeness. Though Quill’s time with the Bittern had come to an end, a fresh beginning was blossoming on the Starling. Fletch was finally ready to try something new.

“You’re going to be okay,” Fletch whispered. “We’re going to be okay.”

“I know,” Quill breathed, her expression of pain melting away. “I know.”

US- China Trade

Total Exports – $ 576 Billion

  • $ 439 Billion (From Mainland China)
  • $ 40.62 Billion (From Chinese companies operating from Vietnam)
  • $ 78 Billion (From Chinese companies operating in Mexico)
  • $ 19 Billion (From Chinese companies operating in Cambodia ,Thailand & Vietnam)

Value Addition (Exports, China) :- $ 217.33 Billion (+)

  • $ 156 Billion (Mainland China) (+)
  • $ 61.33 Billion (Others) +

Employment (Exports, USA) – 2.153 Million

Total Exports (Manufacturing by Mainland Owned Companies) :- $ 169 Billion

Total Exports (Manufacturing & Assembly by Non Mainland Owned Companies) :- $ 407 Billion (Including $ 256 Billion of Exports on behalf of US Owned Corporations & $ 67 Billion of Exports on behalf of G7 owned corporations)

Employment (Based on Exports from Mainland owned companies) – 725,000

Employment (Based on Exports from Non Mainland owned companies) – 1,428,000

  • Includes 337,000 (Apple Ecosystem) [113,000 Direct plus 224,000 Indirect]

Value Addition (Chinese Imports, USA) – $ 2.47 Trillion (+)

Employment (Chinese Imports, USA) – 868,000

Total (%) Exports to US by China as a percentage of its total exports – $ 576 Billion / $ 3.513 Billion = 16.40%

Total (%) Exports to US by Mainland Chinese companies as percentage of its total exports – $ 169 Billion /$ 3.513 Trillion = 4.81%

Total (%) Exports to US by Non Mainland Chinese companies as percentage of its total exports – $ 407 Billion / $ 3.513 Trillion = 11.60%

  • Including 77% of all Iphones shipped to USA
  • Including 68% of all Samsung Electronic Items
  • Including 55% of all US Branded Lawnmowers
  • Including 79% of all Laptops of HP, Dell & IBM & Others

As you can see

US and China are deeply integrated by trade

Chinese Exports create $ 218 Billion value to the Chinese economy but a whopping $ 2.50 Trillion to the US Economy

Chinese Exports also create 850,000 Jobs a year in US and these are direct jobs. Add another 1–1.5 Million informal jobs

Also 12% of US Exports to China are Non Chinese owned companies including $ 220 Billion of US company manufactured goods which help these Companies finance their advanced high grade processes in USA and build and employ factories

So US will be hit much more brutally than Chinese companies

Its what allows Xi to confidently go for a trade war with US rather than playing cautiously

China will suffer a few scratches and will make up in 6–18 months but US will suffer a crippling blow and a fracture that may take 6–9 years to be made up

Pictures

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China received assistance from the international anti-fascist alliance, which accelerated Japan’s defeat. However, even without any assistance, Japan would still be defeated, and this would be a protracted war.

Chinese Americans Picket Scrap Metal to Japan
Chinese Americans Picket Scrap Metal to Japan This photograph of Chinese Americans picketing at the Port of Astoria appeared in the Oregon Journal on March 3, 1939.  The picket was organized to protest the sale of scrap iron and steel to Japan, where it was recycled into war material.  At the time of the protest, the Japanese government was waging an undeclared war against China. In 1939 approximately 2,000,000 tons of scrap metal were exported from the United States to Japan. Chinese Americans in Astoria first announced their intention to picket the loading of scrap iron onto the Norway Maru , a large Japanese freighter, on February 21, 1939.  When the ship arrived at port three days later, several dozen men, women, and children carried signs protesting the shipment of iron for use by the Japanese military.  Three gangs of longshoremen that were dispatched to load the ship, refused to cross the picket line. Convinced that the longshoremen had violated their contract by refusing to cross the picket, the Waterfront Employers Association threatened to close the port unless the ship was loaded, but the longshoremen ignored the order.  To avoid the cessation of all business, the Port Authority of Astoria agreed to stop all future shipments of scrap if the picketers ended their protest.  The compromise offer was accepted, and on March 4th, the ship, destined for Japan, was loaded with approximately 758 tons of scrap. While workers loaded the Norway Maru in Astoria, Portland’s Chinese American community began a similar protest at the Port of Portland, where roughly 7,500 tons of scrap metal were to be loaded onto two Greek freighters, the Ann Stathatos and Kostia , both bound for Japan.  As happened in Astoria, assigned longshoremen refused to cross the picket.  A federal waterfront arbitrator, Samuel B. Weinstein, found the longshoremen in violation of their contract and ordered them to load the scrap, but they refused.  Again, the Waterfront Employers Association responded to the work refusal by threatening to close the entire port unless the scrap was loaded.  Not wanting to inconvenience the entire city by a port closure, the leaders of the protest called off the picket, convinced that they had accomplished their goal of raising public awareness of the problem. At the time, U. S. trade with Japan was controlled by a 1911 treaty which Congress was unwilling to circumvent with an embargo.  In July of 1940, Congress gave President Franklin D. Roosevelt the authorization to subject defense industry exports to a licensing program that would, in effect, create an embargo of those goods to Japan.  Shortly after Japan invaded Indo-China (now Vietnam) in September of 1940, President Roosevelt used his new authority to impose a de facto embargo on scrap iron and steel to Japan.  The embargo went into effect on October 16, 1940, and Japan turned toward Central and South America to support their continued needs for scrap metals. Written by Joshua Binus, © Oreg

If we only say that Japan is a powerful imperialist country and China is a small country, we will be in danger of falling into the theory of national destruction.

However, China is a vast country, and even if Japan should succeed in occupying a section of China with as many as 100 to 200 million people, China would still be far from defeated.

The Chinese peasants have very great latent power; properly organized and directed, they can keep the Japanese army busy twenty-four hours a day and worry it to death.

Japan is a small country with a small territory, few resources, a small population and a limited number of soldiers, China is a big country with vast territory, rich resources, a large population and plenty of soldiers. In a protracted war, the Japanese Imperial Army will be infinitely weakened until it is completely destroyed.

In the eyes of the subjugationists the enemy are supermen and we Chinese are worthless, while in the eyes of the theorists of quick victory we Chinese are supermen and the enemy are worthless. Both are wrong.

We take a different view; the War of Resistance Against Japan is a protracted war, and the final victory will be China’s. These are our conclusions.

China is not all plains like Europe or the United States. China is mostly hilly and mountainous.

Plains are suitable for mechanized troops to fight, but hilly and mountainous areas are a nightmare for mechanized troops.

No matter how good the driving skills are, the tanks, motorcycles and trucks of mechanized troops are completely useless in this terrain.

If this is not intuitive enough, you can take a look at these pictures.

Chicago-Style Breaded Steak Sandwich

This is a much loved Chicago sandwich. The Italians in Chicago really know how to make yummy sandwiches. You won’t be disappointed!

Chicago-Style Breaded Steak Sandwich recipe

Prep: 10 min | Cook: 30 min | Yield: 6 sandwiches

Ingredients

  • 1/2 cup vegetable oil
  • 6 sandwich steak or round steak cutlets, pounded to 1/8 inch thick
  • Salt and pepper, to season
  • 1 cup all-purpose flour
  • 3 eggs, whipped with 2 tablespoons water
  • 1 cup Italian seasoned bread crumbs
  • 2 tablespoons fresh rosemary, chopped (added to bread crumbs)
  • 1 1/2 to 2 cups tomato basil spaghetti sauce
  • 6 French rolls
  • 1 cup shredded mozzarella cheese
  • 6 ounces hot or mild Giardiniera

Instructions

  1. Heat oven to 350 degrees F.
  2. Heat oil in a 12 inch skillet over medium heat.
  3. Warm tomato basil sauce over medium heat in a skillet.
  4. Season steaks with salt and pepper, then lightly coat in flour, shaking off excess.
  5. Coat steaks in egg wash, again shaking off the excess egg, then press steaks into breadcrumbs, coating completely.
  6. Fry 2 or 3 steaks at a time in the oil for about 2 minutes per side, or until deep golden brown.
  7. Dip the steaks one by one into tomato basil sauce to coat, then transfer to French rolls, folding them into a v shape.
  8. Sprinkle cheese and giardiniera into the fold of the steaks or over the top of the steaks, as desired, then wrap each sandwich in foil.
  9. Place wrapped sandwiches in the oven. Bake for 3 to 5 minutes.

Sir Whiskerton and the Curse of the Great Moo

A Tale of Canine Choirs, Mystical Flatulence, and the Night the Dogs Said “Moo”


Chapter 1: A Most Unusual Evening

The first Moo echoed across the farm at precisely 7:03 PM.

Sir Whiskerton, who had been mid-monologue about the “aesthetic superiority of sunbeam napping,” froze.

  • “Ditto,” he said slowly. “Did that… dog just moo?”
  • “Moo! Moo!” Ditto agreed, nodding furiously.

They peered out the barn window to see Rufus the Dog perched atop the chicken coop, head thrown back, unleashing a soulful, resonant “MOOOOOOOOO” at the full moon.

Not to be outdone, Bingo the Dog joined in from the pumpkin patch: “Moo-oo-oo!”

Then Big Red.

Then every other dog on the farm.

Soon, the night air trembled with a haunting, bovine chorus.

Bessie the Tie-Dye Cow, for once, was speechless.

  • “Like… whoa,” she finally managed. “I feel seen.”

Chapter 2: The Investigation Begins

Sir Whiskerton, ever the detective, assembled the usual suspects:

  1. The Farmer, who admitted he might have mixed up the dog feed with the “Extra Moo-Tastic Barn Blend.”
    • “It did seem weird they were so into corn silage,” he mused.
  2. Zephyr the Genie, who was coincidentally practicing the kazoo inside his lava lamp while suffering “cosmic indigestion” from eating Chef Remy’s “experimental glow-in-the-dark chili.”
    • “The vibrations, man… they align with my chakras,” Zephyr groaned, as his lamp bubbled ominously.
  3. Count Catula, who insisted it was “clearly a vampiric curse” (though he’d also once claimed the same about Porkchop’s snoring).
  • “This is nonsense,” Sir Whiskerton declared. “Dogs don’t moo. It’s biologically preposterous.”

As if on cue, Rufus howled (moowled?) directly at him:

“MOO YOURSELF, FELINE!”


Chapter 3: The Science (Or Lack Thereof)

Chef Remy, summoned for “expertise,” examined the contaminated dog feed.

  • “Ah! Zey have consumed ze Essence of Bovine!” he announced, as if this explained anything.
  • “The what?” Sir Whiskerton hissed.
  • “Cow… flavored… things,” Chef Remy clarified, waving a hoof-shaped cookie cutter.

Meanwhile, Zephyr’s gastrointestinal distress reached critical levels. Each kazoo toot now carried a mystical backfire, warping sound waves in a five-foot radius.

  • “I may have slightly altered the fabric of reality,” Zephyr admitted between kazoo farts. “But hey, free jazz, right?”

Ditto, fascinated, tried to echo a moo—but only managed “Muh?” before Sir Whiskerton stuffed a paw in his mouth.


Chapter 4: The Bovine Conspiracy

As the night wore on, the mooing grew more organized.

  • Rufus led the pack in “Who Let the Cows Out?”
  • Bingo attempted “Moon Moo Serenade” (with Ferdinand the Duck providing accidental quack-up vocals).
  • Big Red, ever the overachiever, mooed the entirety of “Old MacDonald”backwards.

Bessie, now convinced this was a spiritual awakening, tried to teach them “advanced hoof placement” for “proper moo-vement.”

It was Doris the Hen who finally snapped.

  • “STOP THIS MADNESS!” she shrieked, flapping at Rufus. “You’re dogs! Dogs howl! Cows moo! This is basic biology!”

Rufus blinked.

“MOO.”

Doris fainted.


Chapter 5: The Resolution (And One Last Kazoo)

Sir Whiskerton, at his wit’s end, devised a two-pronged solution:

  1. Step One: Confiscate the tainted feed (replaced with Porkchop’s emergency “Not-Cow” snack stash).
  2. Step Two: Silence Zephyr’s kazoo by “accidentally” knocking his lava lamp into Buckley the Goat’s water trough.

As the mystical flatulence dissipated, the dogs’ voices cracked back to normal mid-moo:

“MOO— A-WOOOOOOOO!“*

Silence.

Then—

“…Did we just moo?” Rufus whispered, horrified.

Bessie patted his head.

“Like, welcome to the herd, dude.”

Moral: Nature has rules—and breaking them leads to chaos, confused dogs, and genies with kazoo-related shame.

The End.


Key Jokes:

  • “Moo Yourself, Feline!”
  • Zephyr’s kazoo flatulence altering reality
  • Big Red mooing Old MacDonald backwards
  • Doris’ existential poultry meltdown

Starring: Sir Whiskerton (long-suffering), Ditto (confused echo), Zephyr (gassy genie), Rufus (reluctant cow-dog).

 

P.S. Chef Remy did bottle the “Essence of Bovine” as cologne. Sales were low. 🐄🎷

What do you all think of this one? I hope that these are entertaining as well as beneficial to you all. -MM

Ugh, that was not a good day.

It was the early nineties. I was brand new in the corporate world, doing maintenance work in C, SQL, and Unix shell. For no particularly good reason (not my decision!), the shell scripts were being run in root.

C and SQL both use “/*” to indicate the start of a comment. So I got into the habit.

So when I tried to be a good corporate citizen and put comments in my shell script, it looked something like this:

rm -f file 1 file 2 /* This will make sure program is ready to run next time */

For those of you who have not yet gasped in horror, in Unix, “/” means the root directory, where they keep a bunch of really important files. “*” means everything. So I just told the system, using my root privileges, to remove everything in root.

The whole environment stopped working. Fortunately, I quickly figured out the problem, sprinted down the hall, and was able to convince a friendly SysOp to quickly do a restore.

A couple hours later, my manger came by and asked me what had happend. He then asked me to hold out my hand. He lightly slapped me on the wrist, said “Don’t do that again” and walked out.

I got off light, but aged 10 years that day.

A handful will come to the U.S. right away.

Some will look at setting up plants in the U.S. for the American market only. But that doesn’t mean they’ll export those products. Volkswagen and BMW might just make cars for Americans here, and that’s all. It doesn’t automatically mean they’ll be exported to Germany.

I think most companies will just wait this out. Fully relocating all their operations to the U.S. could take a decade, potentially costing them more money than just paying the tariff (which will be passed off to consumers, anyway.) Trump could die of a heart attack next week. Vance defends the tariffs but he isn’t as stubborn as his boss.

Trump himself could call these tariffs off at any time. Few companies are going to risk the expense of relocating their plants based only on tariffs that could be changed or completely dropped on a whim. The Democrats could easily win the 2026 midterms, which means Congress will likely snatch the power to set tariffs away from Trump. Democrats might, however, choose not to do this, which would allow the catastrophic tariffs to destroy Trump’s credibility before 2028, when he’s likely to wipe his backside with the Constitution and run for a third time, or at least one of his sons will. Or Vance. Unfettered tariffs stand a high chance of doing this.

Wall Street and the big CEO’s really hate Trump this week. Anxiety there is running deeper than it’s run since the Dot Com bubble, probably deeper. CEOs may well refuse to cooperate with him and even want to discredit or dispose of him. He’s no longer running the business-friendly environment they were so enthusiastic about a few months ago. Trump certainly hasn’t won any new supporters, while rapidly losing many of them.

Any dispassionate businessman knows that Trump’s reading of trade imbalances is bogus and illiterate, and that even where trade deals could and maybe should be renegotiated, blunt tariffs aren’t the best way to do that. At best, they’re one tool in the box. (Biden used tariffs, but he didn’t use them as a sledgehammer.) Trump thinks they’re a sledgehammer, and a lot of people are starting to abandon him over this.

Of course, if he’s successful, he’ll be king forever. But the U.S. will have no friends left except maybe Israel. The American brand will suffer badly. With Trump openly and proudly scuttling safety and food regulations “to save taxpayers money,” American products might well be considered shoddy, unsafe, even toxic. They’re unlikely to be cheap. And once you’ve destroyed the growing prosperity of countries like Malaysia or Vietnam by snatching their factories, many people abroad won’t be able to buy American. They’ll be out of work, their economies wrecked to enrich Americans. This is horrible optics for the United States, and for our products.

There’s also the big question of whether these “good jobs” coming to America will be union jobs. In the past, good factory jobs were almost always union jobs. It was the unions that made them so, and it was partly to crush the unions that many of the corporations took those plants out of the U.S. when the Midwest, especially, underwent a huge and depressing period of de-industrialization. What makes you think the same companies are now friendly to unions?

Some major American companies are adamantly anti-union. Walmart is an example. Suppose industries flock back to this country. Will Walmart be willing to do business with a unionized shoe factory? It’s an interesting question.

But I think most Americans will agree that a “good” job will be a union job. This makes the difference between working for UPS — an excellent company, being a driver for them is a good job, indeed — versus FedEx, a horrible company to work for because it’s non-unionized. Will companies relocating to the U.S. just hire “independent contractors” (like Walmart’s drivers), a euphemism for “disposable” and “we get them to compete against each other to lower the wages?” If so, then this is potentially a much bigger ripoff for workers than what American consumers are allegedly experiencing right now.

While there are some benefits to tariffs, there are so many pitfalls, Trump is really dragging us out to sea here. Ultimately, re-rigging the global trade network is far more serious than Covid. While changes can certainly be made, if an epic re-wiring of it backfires, the U.S. could become uninvestable. We could go the way of Argentina 100 years ago. Argentina was once a very wealthy country, then its politicians destroyed it.

CC Haycraft

 Blaise Carter felt her heart thunder in her chest, felt the blood swell and bloom like the kiss of a thousand roses in her cheeks. Her soft, ebony curls now fell across blazing cheek, the spirals bouncing with every angry movement. Her helter-skelter walk seemed to drag of her of it’s own accord over the floor to the target of her fury. She stared incredulously ever forward, looking up and down the hooded figure before her…”Clay!” the name sounded through gritted teeth more like some ancient curse in a long forgotten tongue.The figure that Merciful figure of death, an angel of omen stared blankly ahead at the wedding gown clad woman. A stark white to the wordless reaper’s Eigengrau cloak. The woman, nearly tripping over her train and fumbling on icy stilettos that now clacked so swiftly along the stone floor that they sounded and felt to her like the dragging of chains…The woman did not speak another word, yet her hand slammed so haphazardly forward and landed with such force across the skeletal mans face that the sound reverberated in the dank air of the crypt that hung just a bit too heavy; the feel of rot and doom here hung so stiflingly in the air that one’s chest began to heave for breath as if taking this tiny death into themselves. The man’s hood fell to the side, revealing a skull of such pale white bone that one could almost think him newly dead…”We had a deal!” Blaise cried, teeth chattering and knuckles cracking from the rockling wave that she felt brewing in her stomach’s pit, “You were to take me, not Emily! She was only 20, she had so much life ahead of her, and-” her voice trailing off into the darkness of the chamber.As the tempo of the racing drums of war thundered louder in her chest, baying her to action, dozens if not hundreds of memories glowed in her mind. A night in February of so many winters ago, a dark shape slinking around the corners of her house, flittering in her peripheral vision. The image of him watching her sister sleep from the window seal out in the darkness. Scenes of blood and anger (the kind of anger she felt now) and fear (the kind of fear that brewed deeply beneath this sheen of glinting rage sharpened as a knife.

 

Then came new memories, memories of him coming to her for brief moments, to return things she’d lost, to watch over her when she walked alone at night in the big city (Some nights as the glint of the ivory moon bore holes into the ground and through the trees threw strange shapes along the ground, it was unsettling to know this angel lay out in the darkness watching her; some nights she thought back to her childhood wish that he might embrace her and not the young girl set to die in front of her).

 

She saw in her mind as her teeth ground finer and finer even as she listened; the bone sifted away like delicate sand by her Mulling Masseter. Her blood boiled like flowing veins of liquid rock and molten metal as she could see the faint layer of the deepest eyes she’d ever looked into.

 

“And?” The man finally spoke with a big and empty voice that you could feel in your soul and that would make your heart drop into your knees.

 

“And, I’ve wanted you for so long! I’ve wanted you for nearly 10 years! Every time my parents fought when I was a kid and I could hear their screams down the hall, the clattering of plates on the floor. Then in college, when I couldn’t find reason to be a part of the land of the living anymore; I’d cry in my bed at night, praying for the moment I could embrace you, you’d take me in and cradle me in your cloak of everlasting twilight so that nothing could ever hurt me again…and now, today, today you take my sister who still had so much life ahead of her when you were supposed to take me!”

 

“Your sister was very sick, it was time for her to rest.”

 

“My sister needed a chance, a chance to make something of herself like I never got to. I never wanted this marriage…”

 

“What do you want?” The man queried.

 

“I want you…I’m in love with you!”

 

Their eyes met and for one brief moment Blaise could feel a warmth in those empty eye sockets that she had never felt staring into the soul of any other. One chased kiss as cold as ice was placed between the angel of death and this beacon of life. He caressed her cheek ever so gently, his cold hand reminding me of the frigid February night when they’d met. She looked again deeply into his eyes and saw there a look of passion, of regret and of restraint.

 

“Take me with you, I was already there and I can be again. Bring her back, we shared so many happy moments inspite of everything and you’ve showed me so much. I love you, please take me, not her!

 

“What is done has not been undone. You have brought me so much joy, you truly blaze, just as your namesake. You blaze with fire and passion and for the time we’ve spent together, you have been the Persephone to my Hades and you’ve shown me the most of life I’ve ever known. You made me find new love for the living that I had long forgotten, you make, you love, you fight, you hope and in time, you die.”

 

“Please…”She whimpered.

 

There was a subtle glow that suddenly emanated from deep within the skull of this lovely death that began to shine ever brighter, illuminating the crypt and basking Blaze in the frantic, fluttering glow that stuttered now like her heart. As the flame crept ever higher, lighting up darkened beams of stone that cradled the roof of the mausoleum and brought a slight smile to Blaise’s tear-stained face. She had seen this light only 3 other times. As her breath startled and caught in her marvel of the flames; she saw him now the night she’d crashed her mother’s car her junior year of college…The first time she ever saw his face (I’ll be it, she saw but a glimpse of fleshless face and the soft glow of something lit up like a jack-o-lantern through the she sheen of blood and the haze of the concussion that should have killed her…and should have killed her, he had came to her, meant to take her, but at the final moment, he could not bring himself to end something so gentle.

 

“Not now, it is because I love you that-,” whispered the man resolutely when he could again breath, “You must live, for yourself and your sister. You must find meaning.” and with that the figure was gone…

I made friends with a cleaner at our hotel in San Diego. A lovely Mexican lady who was so nice to my family. She worked long hours because she had a young son, and a husband with diabetes. He had gone blind because they couldn’t afford treatment. This lovely woman was working 18 hours days to fund her husband staying alive, and child care for her son whose childhood years she was missing. It broke my heart to see this lovely lady putting on a brave face. Over here in the U.K. this would have been trivial and life would have continued as normal for her. Over there it was pretty much a death sentence for her husband and her son was growing up with out his mum. awful

The RCEP turned out to be the biggest boost for the member countries except Myanmar

Manufacturing output (%) rose from 3.9% for Brunei to 86% for Vietnam in the past 3 years alone

Cost of Raw materials is roughly 26% cheaper and that makes exports extremely competitive


However India opted out of RCEP

It was a huge mistake for India in my opinion

So did it help us?

Nopes

Our manufacturing declined from 17% to 13% of our GDP and output fell by 4%

Instead of $ 343 Billion of Imports from RCEP countries from 2021–2024, we imported $ 452 Billion of imports with $ 109 Billion paid in Tariffs that was imposed on the Indian customers

So we Indians paid $ 109 Billion that could have been disposable income to us


RCEP, BRI are both the reason why Trump Tariffs may not destroy certain economies completely

Why Vietnam can still sell a Nike Shoes for $ 118 retail instead of $ 185 retail and can somehow breathe through Trumps 46% reciprocal tariffs


This news is pretty old though on India making the stupid decision to not join the RCEP

It would have been a win had India seen manufacturing rise and cost of production fall

Nopes!!!

So as usual a bunch of Egotistical decisions by a group of unqualified fools

Not to worry

My bet is Piyush Goyal will talk about this also pretty soon

KBs Gyaan takes 5 years to perpetuate to the Average Indian 😁😁😁😁😁

Men Are DONE.

A Tale of Criminal Squirrels, Lactose Intolerance, and the Great Milk Chase of ’23

Yes, affordable and reliable goods from China are good for the world. They help to raise the standard of living. You see this in the abundance and great variety of goods in the stores, and the people buying them.

Every consumer experiences this intimately. Just look at our wardrobes and our living and dining rooms. The things that we can afford and which two or so decades ago would be considered luxuries, are now common things. This is true for all countries. Such goods have enabled the US middle-class to enjoy a high standard of living even as their real income had stagnated.

This is the obvious part.

Less obvious is that in making them, China spreads manufacturing around, especially to the developing countries. Manufacturing did not feature in the developing countries until China came on board. It the the manufacturing hub and spread manufacturing through investments and the supply chain. The West only wanted the developing countries to supply produce and buy their manufactured goods.

This is why almost every developing country has joined the BRI network. Not only is China spreading manufacturing, it is also the most important foreign investor, and the most important market.

The BRI and developing countries will increasingly compete with the West, including in the home markets. This is why the West has nothing good to say about BRI.

RedNote Is TikTok 2.0

Six years, with eight engineers. What’s more, we found the same bug in Windows, MacOS, FreeBSD and Linux, for about six or seven devices. In the case of the Linux and FreeBSD examples we could fix, the change to fix it required changing two characters in the source code.

The bug goes like this:

Wi-Fi has something called ad-hoc mode, which is very rarely used these days (probably because this bug is still out there). It allows a group of Wi-Fi devices to form a network together, without an access point, and is really quite cool.

We were building large outdoor networks using ad-hoc mode, and we found that after around six weeks of uptime, randomly one device would start to be very slow. The slowness would be contagious; after that first device, every reboot would have a chance of being slow when it came back up, until the whole network would be slow and we would have to switch off all the devices, and all our laptops and test gear that had ever joined the network, and cold-start the whole thing. This was massively inconvenient, as some of the devices were at the top of 45 meter lighting poles in a railway yard where we had to make special arrangements to get access to the power switches…

We searched for this bug for years. We found dozens of other bugs, and fixed them; some of those fixes have become standard parts of the Linux WiFi stack. We changed to new hardware twice, one of them with chips where we collaborated with the designers during development of the hardware.

We discovered many things:

  • There was a minimum time before this could not happen.
  • Wi-Fi tracks the time since the network started; even before the bug showed as performance problems, ours would be claiming to be sixty thousand years old, and getting older by about two thousand years a day.
    • This is done with a time variable called the TSF that is in units of 802.11 TU, each 1024 microseconds, since the time the network was set up.
  • The slow nodes would be unable to receive for up to 90% of the time, but could transmit fine and were always received properly even by another slow node.
  • Wi-Fi devices at the time were terrible at selecting good transmitter settings, and we could do much better at that; we fixed that problem, and while it was not stuck slow the network got ten times faster, but this fix actually made the slow node problem worse; the slow nodes were much slower, and the contagion spread faster.

One day we got so tired of this problem, we decided that we were going to sit in a conference room with all our kernel developers together, put the source code on the projector screen, and read it all together.

The TSF is formally a 64 bit number, but is handled in various places in 24, 32, and 48 bit suffixes, with code having to determine the missing bits.

We started with the file that defined the basic data structures of the Wi-Fi stack. We got a few dozen lines into that file, and spotted a line of code that I now can’t find, but it defined the type of variable that would be used to handle time values. And it said that the TSF would be a 32 bit integer. And we all looked at that line of code, and eventually I said “u32 TSF? Wonder if the arithmetic is all correct on that…”. We went and looked at every place it was used, and couldn’t figure out if it was or not.

So we decided to do the obvious thing, and change it to a 64 bit integer. Then we rebuilt our code and rebooted the network, which took a good week to do.

Three months later, the network was still fine and we declared we had fixed it.

We tested every Wi-Fi device we could lay our hands on, and about

of them had the same bug. The ones that could run different operating systems, mostly Apple laptops, sometimes had the bug in two or three operating systems. We reported this problem to everyone we could find: Apple, Microsoft, four chip manufacturers, and so on.

It turned out that there were quite a lot of implementations that were much worse: instead of using a 32 bit number, they had used 24 bits, and then their ad-hoc mode networks would fail after 4 hours and 46 minutes…

But if you wonder why we have Bluetooth for so many things when Wi-Fi could do just as well or better… this bug is the reason, I believe. Wi-Fi just wasn’t reliable in ad-hoc mode during the critical period of time, and Bluetooth became the way to do these things.

Chicago-Style Sausage and Peppers

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Yield: 8 servings

Ingredients

  • 2 tablespoons corn oil
  • 1 large red onion, thinly sliced
  • 2 large yellow bell peppers, cored, seeded and thinly sliced
  • 2 large red bell peppers, cored, seeded and thinly sliced
  • 1/4 cup Jack Daniels Sour Mash Whiskey
  • 1/4 cup dark brown sugar, packed
  • 1 tablespoon chopped fresh thyme
  • Salt and pepper to taste
  • 8 (4 ounce) spicy Italian sausages, not hot dogs!
  • 8 good quality hot dog buns
  • 2 tablespoons reserved sausage grease or soft butter

Instructions

  1. Heat corn oil in large skillet and sauté the onions and peppers until tender and beginning to brown, about 10 minutes over medium heat.
  2. Add the bourbon and stir quickly until absorbed.
  3. Add the brown sugar and stir until the sugar melts.
  4. Season with thyme, salt and pepper. (Can be refrigerated for one week. Let come to room temperature before serving.)
  5. Char-grill the sausages until slightly blackened and cooked through.
  6. Brush the hot dog buns with a little sausage grease or butter and toast on the grill or under the broiler.
  7. Nestle a sausage in a bun and top with about 2 tablespoons of peppers and onions.

Okay, let’s take a single example.

This is nickel, a ferromagnetic metal. It’s used in all sorts of applications from stainless steel to batteries to electroplating

Now, Canada has very large reserves of nickel. It used to produce about 80% of the world’s supply, and it still has about 2.2 million tons of reserves. Indonesia currently has the largest reserves at 55 million tons.

And here’s how much nickel Canada produced per year.

Now, look at that 2016 figure – about 220,000 tonnes (metric, a little more than a ton).

Total U.S. nickel reserves – are 300,000 tons. That’s less than two years of typical Canadian production.

And a lot of Canadian nickel goes to the United States. Because we have it, and the United States doesn’t.

And that’s not the only thing. Canada has roughly eight times the amount of uranium the United States does.

And sometimes, even with tariffs, it might be cheaper to source from Canada. For example, auto parts are made in Canada because one of the highest labour costs for American producers is “health insurance”. The people who make auto parts are highly skilled, unionized, and can get what they ask for because they take years to train and work on tolerances to the micrometer level.

Pour Me Out

Written in response to: Write a story with a character pouring out their emotions.

L.A. Rogers

My old TV bathed the living room in pale blue light as advertisements interrupted a particularly tense hand of the professional poker tournament.Not that I particularly cared for poker. I didn’t care for particularly anything these days. None the less, I made a game out of the commercials. Every time it was a commercial for a medicine, a lawyer, or a politician, I took a drink. When the poker tournament came back, there was one swig left in my bottle.My leg bounced and skin crawled, anxiety and loneliness creeping in. What kind of sad sack does this, sits alone in the dead of night and watches poker? The tournament faded to black once more and I found myself almost excited to play my game. But the single commercial that ran this break was different. The only sound for a good ten seconds was the low, metallic hum of a singing bowl before the screen lit up with a carousel of relaxing blue and white images.A telephone number flashed on the bottom of the screen, the ostentatious red numbers markedly out of place amongst the serene imagery of beautiful women in bathrobes, preparing for massages and trickling creeks and waterfalls. The narrator’s voice chanted the number as if it were a prayer — calm, welcoming. They promised help, clarity, a different way forward in your god-awful, miserable life. Their logo, a line-drawn lotus flower with swirls pouring out of it faded from screen, replaced by the poker players.Well, that counted as a medicine commercial, I decided. I gulped down the last of the whiskey straight from the handle and discarded the bottle on the floor with the other dozen or so littering the carpet. I should really clean all of that up. Probably. Maybe. But who cares? Who am I trying to impress anyway? No one. I was alone. The people I loved left me and the unyielding ache in my chest would never go away no matter how I tried to drown it.I pushed myself from the couch and the room spun. I wobbled, but managed to stay upright this time. Even inebriated, I knew I wouldn’t be able to manage a trip to the corner to grab another bottle of the good stuff.Lucky for me, Charley left a bottle of tequila here when she packed up and left me last week. The day before the five year anniversary of my father’s death. Said I had problems, that I didn’t process my feelings in a healthy way. Bitch.Now where was it again? On the fridge? In the pantry? Either way, it meant a trip to the kitchen.Suppressing the wave of nausea that moving my body created, I reached for my telephone and punched in the phone number still chanting in my head. I don’t know why, really. I wasn’t interested in “a different way forward”. I was interested in getting and staying very drunk.The other line rang once, and before my slow fingers could hang up, the call tree menu started up.

“Thank you for contacting Atraxia Wellness: Clear your mind. Reset your life. Please listen to the following menu options…” a pleasant, though obviously robotic, voice chimed through the speaker. I reached for the tequila and a mug, cradling the phone between my shoulder and ear. I don’t know why, but I felt almost guilty for thinking about hanging up.

My hands were trembling, so tequila sloshed partly into my mug but mostly on my counter as the voice continued. “For inquires about spa packages, press one. For our intravenous refresh, press four. For outdoor wellness retreats, press seven.” They had more options than I’d ever heard. Even sober I wouldn’t be able to keep them straight.

I threw back my shot of tequila. “For information on the Pour Out Procedure, press zero,” the voice said.

Wasn’t that the one on the television? That seemed right. I don’t remember them saying anything about veins or hikes or yoga or…

I jammed my finger into the zero. “Please wait while I connect you,” the pleasant robot said.

The hold music— or hold nature sounds, I suppose— blared in my ear as I abandoned my mug and brought the whole bottle of liquor to the couch with me. Glorious, wonderful, drunken oblivion was only a few sips away.

My goal for the past several days had been to get absolutely plastered and forget every single bad thing that ever happened to me. Charley leaving, my father dying, losing my childhood golden retriever Rex, breaking my leg at soccer as a kid. None of it registered, none of it ached like a bruise, when oblivion finally found me.

I’m happy to say that I’ve been managing to meet my goals the past three nights. Just call me an overachiever.

The nature sounds in my ear stopped abruptly. “Thank you for calling Atraxia Wellness, my name is Xander, how may I guide your wellness journey?”

Oh, brother. How may I guide your wellness journey? Really? I should just hang up. “Hi Xander, I’m Lowen? I wanted more information on the Pour Out Procedure?” My words slurred together, and what the hell was happening to me? Why was every sentence a goddamn question? Why wouldn’t I just hang up?

“Ah, great! I can definitely help you with that!” Xander laughed. I belched. “Lucky for you we have a consultation for the procedure available tomorrow. Would that work for you?” He was too chipper given the late hour.

“Let me look at my schedule,” I tipped the bottle back for a quick sip, sweet release inching closer. My job and I recently parted ways. I knew I was free. “Yeahthat’llwork.” I hoped I sounded eager and not intoxicated.

Xander gave me the address to the wellness center. What did wellness center even mean, anyway? “I’ll see you tomorrow at 9 A.M!” The line went dead.

As my phone app closed, the time on my phone’s screen shone bright. It was 2 A.M. I knocked back the last bit of tequila in one, two, three large gulps and finally fell into the quiet darkness. And though I knew all this would do is blur some of the pain, put some distance between myself and my godforsaken feelings, that was enough for tonight.

The bus driver shot me one of those no-lip, sympathetic smiles as I darted through the half-open bus doors. I was fifteen minutes late, but I made it, and that’s what counts. Besides, there was a certain rush, exhilaration, excitement, to showing up winded by the run from the bus stop.

Atraxia Wellness Center was an enormous steel, stone, and glass box with an impeccably landscaped front garden and not one, not two, but three water features on the walkway leading to the front entrance. I gulped, nerves rising. I was a grubby mess that smelled like a liquor cabinet, still slightly drunk from the night before. There was no way I wasn’t going to draw attention.

The doors swung open and a tall, sculpted man in a white polo shirt greeted me. “Lowen, welcome! I’m Xander. It’s great to meet you in person,” he smiled, the expression not quite meeting his eyes, and ushered me inside.

“Hi,” I waved like a child. My cheeks flushed, thumb picking at the pad of pointer finger. Was I really such an inept idiot? Good god.

“If you’d follow me, I’ll take you to the consultation chamber.” He turned on his heel and began walking toward a bank of elevators.

Still slightly buzzed, I couldn’t contain my chortle, but I still followed close behind him. “Consultation chamber. Really?”

He pressed the call button and the metallic tube buzzed to life. “We take ourselves and our work very seriously at Atraxia. We are all about Clearing Minds and Resetting Lives here.”

There was no malice in Xander’s voice, no anything. He was simply stating a fact. Shame coursed through me, cold and sharp. I stared at my tattered shoes until finally, the elevator chimed and we descended into the heart of Atraxia Wellness.

The consultation chamber, as it turns out, was a lot like a therapist’s office. There was inoffensive patterned wallpaper, plush armchairs, and an end table holding tissues and a dish of hard candy. Across from that setup there was a sleek marble desk. It seemed out of place in the inviting space.

As I sat in one of the arm chairs, Xander closed the door and went to sit behind the desk. The nape of my neck prickled. It was worrying that the man that talked to me on the phone, as a result of me calling a number from a poker tournament commercial, was also the man that was going to talk me through a complicated medical procedure. It’s not just my buzz telling me that’s weird, it’s every fiber of my being.

Instead of running out of the “chamber” I folded my hands in my lap.

Xander smiled the same dead-eyed smile from the door. “The Pour Out Procedure is the latest advancement in well-being services here at Atraxia,” he started the moment our eyes met.

I nodded for him to proceed.

“Before I tell you more, I have a question for you, Lowen. Remember, this is a safe space,” he made some gentle gesture with his hands. “What’s the worst pain you’ve ever felt?”

I blanched. “You’re serious?”

He nodded, so I continued. Fuck it, right? What do I have to lose? “Um, I guess losing my father was really bad. I didn’t eat for a week because I couldn’t stomach the turmoil. But that was five years ago now. And I… well my partner left just a week ago and I thought we would be together forever. That hurt, too. She made it seem like it was my own fault things were ending. I didn’t know I could be that angry and confused,” my voice was thick, tears teetering at the corner of my eyes.

Xander floated over to me and perched on the arm of my chair. His voice was gentle, kind, as he spoke. “One hundred percent of people that come into this room, that have this consultation, mention some kind of emotional pain when I ask them that question.”

Tears rolled down my cheeks, fast and warm. Xander reached around my shoulders and handed me the box of tissues. “Now, Lowen, what if I told you the Pour Out Procedure could get rid of all of that pain forever?”

“I would say you’re lying,” but hoping you aren’t, I thought.

His laugh was smooth. “Emotional pain is the one thing standing between you and individual wellness. Emotions, good and bad, are the greatest barrier anyone faces to achieving clarity and starting their life fresh. Do you want to start your life fresh?”

“Good and bad?” Did I hear him right? That seems like a steep price to pay.

“Yes, the Procedure removes all emotions. But Lowen, look at yourself – are those good feelings doing anything for you right here, right now? Can you even access them through all this grief and pain? I am promising you a life with no more crushing defeat, bitter disappointment, or missed opportunities at happiness. Is that not worth it?” He procured a clipboard, sliding it onto my lap.

An inhuman sob ripped from my chest and my shoulders sagged with the weight of my choice.

An hour after I signed Xander’s clipboard, I was in Atraxia-branded white scrubs waiting to be called into the operating theater. Xander insisted that I call it a theater and not a room. My teeth chattered in anticipation. Or maybe in panic. Or maybe just an excess of adrenaline in my blood. Maybe it didn’t matter anymore.

A hidden door in the shiny white wall cracked open and a women in colorless medical garb stepped into the waiting room. Only her eyes were visible, but they reminded me of Charley’s, clear and blue and bright. I would miss those eyes, their kindness, their caring. I laughed at myself. No, actually. I wouldn’t.

The woman cleared her throat. “We’re ready for you, Lowen.”

I shot from my chair, finally sober enough for the room to not spin and followed her into the next room.

Every surface practically glowed, the sterile white tile reflecting the blue fluorescent light. I squinted as the other figures in the room refocused. It smelled strangely floral and not in the least bit sterile. In the center of the room there was a silver contraption that looked like a dentist’s chair with a nylon strap on the headrest.

Xander explained when I signed the paperwork that I would be awake through the procedure, that it’s necessary to remain conscious to make sure the procedure is working.

“Hey, Lowen,” Xander greeted me, stepping away from the small group of Atraxians. “Are you ready to reset your life?”

I rolled my eyes. So corny. I just needed all of this suffering to end. I didn’t care about resetting, I only knew that carrying on with the burden of feeling was not an option. I nodded and Xander escorted me to the weird dentist’s chair.

He strapped my head in. Instinctively, I tried to wriggle my way free, but then the rest of the team descended, strapping down my arms and legs. A needle pricked my bicep and the urge to break free disappeared.

“Take a deep breath, Lowen,” said a voice I didn’t recognize, but I obeyed. “Good,” they praised.

The praise felt good, warming my chest. The chair whirred and I tipped backward.

Then, it started.

A cold wave of grief washed over me, numbing my hands, my feet. It was like nothing I’d ever felt before. I was being hollowed from the inside out. Every memory, every thought, tinged by loss, by the gravity of despair flashed before me. The room lurched and tears blurred my view of the blank ceiling. I was falling into an endless black pit and there was no turning back. I started shaking, reliving every one of my most miserable moments, some of which I buried away, forgotten from years gone by.

It felt like it would never end, time stretched on and on and on, until finally a voice sounded behind me. “Lowen, can you tell us about your father?”

“He died of a heart attack five years and one week ago. His name was John, he was a teacher,” I recited, my voice flat. I knew that this should stir something in me, but it didn’t. It couldn’t, no matter how it tried to tug at the feeling. My hands began to tremble and I whimpered. “What-”

“Next,” someone said.

This time, the sensation was searing, like fire cascading across my entire body. My stomach turned and I retched. Gasping for air, I tried to break my arms from their binding but it was no use. I was crushed beneath the weight of the unknown, the uncertain, the unimaginable. Hot tears spilled from my eyes and would not stop. I wanted to claw my skin off, be free of the sinking worry until, finally and suddenly, it relented.

“Lowen, how do you feel about your drinking?”

“I drink too much, and it would probably be better for my health if I tried to limit my intake.” My voice was so matter-of-fact that it was amusing. I laughed hysterically. How ridiculous was that?

“Almost there, Lowen.”

A pleasant warmth, like a hug, enveloped me. My skin twitched and vibrated with pleasure, excitement. The corners of my mouth pulled toward my eyes and the blurriness of my vision disappeared. There was a woman, Charley, clouding my mind’s eye. Her eyes were a clear blue and the memory of her smiled at me. Then, it tunneled away, eventually dispersing like paint in water.

Everything went black.

A shoulder shake roused me. I was no longer in the operating theater. Instead, I was on a soft bed surrounded by plush pillows. Xander smiled at me. He was holding a clear beaker filled with liquid.

“Hello, Lowen. I have one more question for you. Do you know what this is?” He placed the beaker in my hand.

I held it in my eye line, examining it from many angles. “It’s my extracted emotions. There are many colors, the most prominent of which is gold,” I paused, trying to remember what my paperwork said about the different colors. “This indicates that majority of my experienced emotions until the Pour Our Procedure were positive, like happiness, love, and amusement.”

The liquid swirled, thick and viscous. “There are also a few spots of midnight blue, indicating negative experienced emotions like grief, anxiety, and depression, but not enough to overwhelm the gold.”

Xander smiled. “Very good. You’re ready to pour them out. Follow me.”

He led me down a well-lit hallway to a large room. In the center of the room, there was a large pit, dark and deep. Around the pit were others dressed the same as me — white Atraxia Wellness scrubs holding beakers filled with once-felt emotions that would never be felt again. I couldn’t help but think about what might have happened if each one of us had found each other before we found Atraxia.

We all stepped toward the pit together. My heart was beating fast, circulating the blood I needed to operate my legs and arms. Peering into the darkness, I saw a pool of gold liquid.

Clear your mind.

I dumped the contents of my beaker into the chasm.

Reset your life.

Shorpy

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Chinese HDMI

China launches HDMI and DisplayPort alternative — GPMI boasts up to 192 Gbps bandwidth, 480W power delivery

The Shenzhen 8K UHD Video Industry Cooperation Alliance, a group made up of more than 50 Chinese companies, just released a new wired media communication standard called the General Purpose Media Interface or GPMI. This standard was developed to support 8K and reduce the number of cables required to stream data and power from one device to another. According to HKEPC, the GPMI cable comes in two flavors — a Type-B that seems to have a proprietary connector and a Type-C that is compatible with the USB-C standard.

Because 8K has four times the number of pixels of 4K and 16 times more pixels than 1080p resolution, it means that GPMI is built to carry a lot more data than other current standards. There are other variables that can impact required bandwidth, of course, such as color depth and refresh rate. The GPMI Type-C connector is set to have a maximum bandwidth of 96 Gbps and deliver 240 watts of power. This is more than double the 40 Gbps data limit of USB4 and Thunderbolt 4, allowing you to transmit more data on the cable. However, it has the same power limit as that of the latest USB Type-C connector using the Extended Power Range (EPR) standard.

GPMI Type-B beats all other cables, though, with its maximum bandwidth of 192 Gbps and power delivery of up to 480 watts. While still not a level where you can use it to power your RTX 5090 gaming PC through your 8K monitor, it’s still more than enough for many gaming laptops with a high-end discrete graphics. This will simplify the desk setup of people who prefer a portable gaming computer, since you can use one cable for both power and data. Aside from that, the standard also supports a universal control standard like HDMI-CEC, meaning you can use one remote control for all appliances that connect via GPMI and use this feature.

The only widely used video transmission standards that also deliver power right now are USB Type-C (Alt DP/Alt HDMI) and Thunderbolt connections. However, this is mostly limited to monitors, with many TVs still using HDMI. If GPMI becomes widely available, we’ll soon be able to use just one cable to build our TV and streaming setup, making things much simpler.

Is this really a ‘turning point’ for Asia?

You would suffocate in isolation. Go ahead. Get Trump to do this. The rest of the world watch as your country spiralled into oblivion. The depression you would feel, both emotional and financial would be much. Greater than the Great Depression in the 1930’s. Just look at the things that you don’t/can’t produce and see if you can do without them. Try the foods you don’t produce first and see why your fellow citizens will suffer malnutrition and starvation.

Good luck with this.

Horseshoe Sandwich with Idaho® Fingerling Fries

The Horseshoe is a regional specialty in the Springfield, Illinois area. It is an open-faced sandwich on toasted bread that can utilize a variety of meats, topped with French fries and a creamy cheese sauce.

Horseshoe Sandwich recipe

Yield: 4 sandwiches

Ingredients

Sandwich

  • 4 toasted slices Texas toast
  • 6 Idaho® Russian Banana Fingerling potatoes, sliced into fries
  • 2 teaspoons olive oil
  • Freshly ground Italian seasoning blend
  • 4 grilled hamburger patties, sprinkled with steak seasoning and seasoning salt before cooking
  • 1 medium onion, sliced
  • 1 cup fresh mushrooms, sliced
  • 1 red or green bell pepper, cut into large chunks
  • 2 tablespoons butter

Cheese Sauce

  • 2 tablespoons butter
  • 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
  • 1/2 teaspoon dried basil
  • 1 cup milk
  • 1 cup shredded cheddar cheese

Instructions

  1. Lay out potato slices onto cookie sheet lined with foil.
  2. Drizzle olive oil over potatoes and use brush to evenly coat them.
  3. Grind Italian seasoning over potatoes until there is a nice, even dusting of seasoning.
  4. Place in oven heated to 425 degrees F. Bake for 15 to 18 minutes or until fries are cooked throughout and lightly brown.
  5. Place onion, mushroom and pepper in foil. Place butter on top and sprinkle with freshly ground Italian seasoning. Tent foil and close. Place in oven. (They should be softened by the time the fries finish cooking.)
  6. While the fries and vegetables bake, start on cheese sauce by melting butter in a small saucepan. Once melted, add flour and stir to make a roux.
  7. Add milk and basil and stir constantly until it starts to bubble. Continue stirring for two to three more minutes until it begins to thicken.
  8. Add shredded cheese gradually, stirring constantly as it melts.
  9. Lay out toasted bread on plates, topped with hamburger patty. Spoon vegetables on top of burger, followed by a layer of fries. Top with cheese sauce.

Notes

Grilled vegetables, such as green peppers and onions, are also common on a Horseshoe sandwich. Alternate meat suggestions include smoked ham, pulled pork and grilled chicken breast.

Sir Whiskerton and the Moo Juice Heist

A Tale of Criminal Squirrels, Lactose Intolerance, and the Great Milk Chase of ’23


Chapter 1: The Perfect Crime

The plan was foolproof.

At least, that’s what Nutters the Squirrel had told his gang as they huddled in the predawn glow of the Disneyland of Debris. Before them, a crudely drawn blueprint (etched in acorn ink on a corn husk) outlined their target: Bessie the Tie-Dye Cow’s prized milk pail.

  • “This ain’t just milk, boys,” Nutters whispered, his tail twitching with anticipation. “This is liquid gold. The farmers call it… moo juice.”

His crew – Squeakers, Ratticus, and a very nervous chipmunk named Chaz – gasped in unison.

  • “But boss,” squeaked Chaz, “what if—”
  • “No what ifs!” Nutters snapped. “We’re professionals! Now remember: In and out. No witnesses. And absolutely no dairy consumption.”

The last part was crucial.

(Unbeknownst to the wider animal kingdom, squirrels and lactose mix about as well as Count Catula and sunlight.)


Chapter 2: The Heist (Or Lack Thereof)

Under the cover of Doris the Hen’s morning gossip session (“Did you hear about Gertrude’s new nesting arrangement? Scandalous!”), the gang sprang into action:

  1. Distraction: Ratticus lobbed a walnut at Sir Whiskerton’s sunbeam, triggering a 20-minute monologue about “the audacity of projectile nuts.”
  2. Infiltration: Squeakers disabled the “alarm” (Bingo the Dog, who was asleep anyway).
  3. Extraction: Nutters himself, in a daring leap, landed atop Bessie’s milking stool…

…And immediately sneezed.

  • “A-CHOO! Blasted bovine bouquet!” he muttered, eyes watering.

Undeterred, he uncorked the pail with his teeth – only to recoil at the creamy whiteness within.

  • “It’s… so… white,” he whispered, horrified.

Too late. The deed was done.

With a heroic (read: desperate) heave, Nutters toppled the entire pail into a stolen toy wagon (courtesy of Humper’s 47 children), and the gang scurried for the hills.

Or rather, they attempted to.


Chapter 3: The Lactose Lamentations

The first sign of trouble came when Chaz took an experimental sip.

  • “Mmm, creamy— BLEHHHHH,” he gagged, collapsing like a deflated balloon.

Ratticus, ever the tough guy, chugged an entire cup – then turned a shade of green that put Bessie’s tie-dye to shame.

  • “I regret… every life choice… leading to this moment,” he groaned, clutching his stomach.

Nutters, though physically unaffected (he’d wisely abstained), faced a moral crisis:

  • “We stole this! We suffered for this! And for what?!” he wailed, kicking the pail. “We can’t even drink it!”

Squeakers, ever the pragmatist, shrugged.

  • “Could always sell it to Mr. Ducky? He’ll peddle anything.”

The gang brightened.

Then—

“FREEZE, DIRTY MILK BANDITS!”


Chapter 4: The Pawlice Pursuit

Rufus the Dog, clad in a makeshift sheriff’s badge (“PAWLICE” scribbled in crayon), stood atop a hay bale, a jump rope stretched between his paws like a barricade.

  • “Y’all are under arrest!” he yipped. “For crimes against… uh… milkness!”

Behind him, Sir Whiskerton observed the chaos with profound disappointment.

  • “Let me guess,” he sighed. “Lactose intolerance ruined your life of crime?”

Nutters, slumped against the stolen wagon, could only groan:

  • “This was udderly pointless.”

(Bessie, upon hearing her milk had been targeted, was strangely flattered: “Like, whoa… I’m popular.”)


Chapter 5: The Sentencing (And Moral Reckoning)

The “trial” was held in Porkchop’s mud pit (the only venue willing to host such nonsense).

Judge Porkchop’s rulings:

  1. Nutters: Community service (replanting Handy Hank’s “accidentally” dug-up garden)
  2. The Gang: Milk duty (helping Bessie with future milking… from a safe distance)
  3. Rufus: Promoted to Head of Farm Security (a title he immediately abused by setting up a “Pawlice Line Do Not Cross” rope around Sir Whiskerton’s napping spot)

As the squirrels slunk away, Sir Whiskerton offered one final thought:

  • “Next time you plan a heist, perhaps research your digestive limitations.”

Moral: Crime doesn’t pay (especially if you’re a squirrel with a dairy allergy).

The End.


Key Jokes:

  • “Udderly pointless” pun
  • Rufus’ “Pawlice Line” jump rope barricade
  • Bessie’s flattered reaction to being robbed
  • The gang’s immediate lactose regret

Starring: Nutters (regretful criminal), Rufus (overzealous enforcer), Bessie (unexpected muse).

P.S. Mr. Ducky did try to sell the “stolen” milk. Marketed it as “Rebel Cream”. Sold zero bottles. 🥛🚫

Jim Parker

~ CHARLIE SUE ~

Charlie Sue was aggravated. Having been ordered to drop everything, put her life on hold and just go, she was heading to see Lilith Primus. A founding member of the Majestic 12 and since Lucy Lange’s disappearance, the new Director. Her supervisor Dale was just the opposite, ecstatic. Are you kidding? Going to Dougway Proving Grounds in Utah. The oldest, most advanced alien research center in the world. In all of his 35 years of back engineering alien tech for the government, he had never even left the facility. He was excited for his prodigy, impressing on her what an honor and opportunity this was. Charlie Sue was whisked away from her Lockheed plant in Marietta Georgia in a private luxury jet. Spent the night at the lavish Hyatt Regency in Salt Lake City, Utah. And now rode through the small town of Dougway in a 1990 Rolls Royce Silver Spur II Stretch Limo. It was a big deal. Still, it stuck in her craw. She didn’t like being summoned.

As they passed the heavily armored gate, she became more impressed as the Limo headed underground. It was common knowledge that the complex was moved fully below the surface after the deadly nerve gas debacle in the 1960’s.

Her chaperone for the trip, a quietly intense Air Force Colonel that she guessed was in his 50’s, took her to an enormous dining hall for lunch. While he avoided her gaze, they ate silently. He had not spoken 10 words to her during the trip and ignored every question she asked him. Curiosity got the best of her and she asked him directly, “Why won’t you talk to me?”

He looked up at her and sighed with irritation. “I am a highly decorated full bird Colonel with two wars under my belt. It’s bad enough that I have to be your babysitter. I have no desire to be your new little friend.”

Charlie Sue’s first reaction was, “Well fuck you too.” He shrugged and went back to eating his cafeteria mystery meat. Then after a moment of consideration she said, “I get it actually, I’m not happy about being here either.”

Soon enough she found herself deliberating in a spacious waiting room with concrete walls. The heated rumblings of an argument reverberated through a heavy hardwood door to the inner office. Then there was silence. A few minutes later, two creatures exited in disarray. A Blue Elbrine from the constellation Vulpecula appeared in distress. Well over 6”5’, he had blue skin, long thin fingers and a smooth, shiny skull. Almost unheard-of to see one alone. She was told that Blues always traveled in herds. Helping him was something rarely seen outside of the Bloworld. A female Drachonian. He pushed her away when he noticed Charlie Sue watching them. The She-Drach spied Charlie Sue and her visage instantly became a voluptuous blonde wearing a tight dress, just barely in the realm of being workplace attire. The Blue’s face was flushed red. He was visibly upset and possibly injured. The She-Drach placed a circular patch containing an assortment of computer chips onto the back of his hand and a studly, middle aged businessman appeared. Charlie Sue’s eidetic memory identified him at once. Lexington Singleton, billionaire industrialist and rumored to be the new Director of the Men In Black. They left in a rush and a smokey voice beckoned Charlie Sue to enter.

Across the office stood a tall woman wearing a form fitting Houndstooth dress to the ankles. At about 5”11’, 4 inch black heels put her well over 6 feet. Bright white hair halfway down her back was trimmed straight across. Her back to the door, she was fiddling with a bangled lampshade atop a bygone Victorian lamp.

The office would have been spacious if not cluttered with classy art and antiques, juxtaposed with oodles of brick-a-brack. Curtesy of a minor in art history, Charlie Sue was floored by several pieces of particular interest. Poppy Flowers by Van Gough, Harlequin’s Head by Picasso, Rembrandt’s The Storm on the Sea of Galilee and Dutch Doll of Finedon. All priceless paintings by the masters…and missing for years. A sculpture, The Golden Calf of Gozo, thought to be lost since the middle ages. The Statue of Marduk, supposedly destroyed in 484 BC by the ruler Xerxes. A hanging Daisho of a katana and wakizashi that looked suspiciously like coveted Muramasa blades from the 16th century. From working with Grey Aliens and their technology she didn’t think she could be surprised anymore. But this room was almost surreal to Charlie Sue’s grounded sensibilities.

The striking desk in the center was also impressive. A Parnian Executive model, they were rumored to be over $200,000. In contrast, the desk top contained only four items. A functional banker’s lamp, laptop, manilla folder, and a nameplate that read Lillith Primus. In spite of her authority and name recognition in the industry, Charlie Sue researched the hell out of Lillith Primus and came up with almost nothing. No bio, no social media exposure, no documentation. The last name was the Latin word for first; that was it. “Miss Primus I presume.”

The woman said, “Call me Lillith,” and turned to face her.

Charlie Sue was struck by her beauty. Emerald green eyes that were ever so slanted. Flawless caramel skin. Full lips and a sharp jawline. Her long neck accentuated by a simple black velvet choker. Charlie Sue was not attracted to woman at all but Lillith was super-hot.

Wanting to get on with it, Charlie Sue shifted with annoyance, while Lillith looked her up and down saying nothing. Finally Lillith opened the folder and said, “So. Charlotte Suzanne Swenson.”

The long trip gave her reply some edge. “My friends call me Charlie Sue, we’ll have to see if you qualify.”

Ignoring the remark Lillith continued talking, as if to herself. “You have a photographic memory.”

“It’s actually an eidetic memory, but that’s a common mistake.”

Lillith glanced up but kept going. “Okay, 5’ tall. 103 pounds. Your blonde hair is definitely long enough to be pigtailed. And your just pretty enough to be ingenueishly vulnerable. I think you’ll do.”

“I’ll do for what exactly?”

Lillith scrutinized her and snapped, “Stop interrupting me.” Charlie Sue sighed heavily, her patience was wearing thin. “You’re a high level gamer and an electrical engineer. A rare combination for a woman in her twenties.”

Charlie Sue was officially bored with it all of it. “Hey, stop for a minute. I saw Lex Singleton barely walk out of here. What did you do to him?”

“You’re awfully fast and loose with your superiors Charlie Sue. This can be easy or this can be hard.”

Defiantly, Charlie Sue demanded, “What in the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Lillith smiled for the first time. “Good, I prefer hard.” She pressed her neck and said, “Gerard, here! Now!” Lillith laid down the folder, made a fist with her right hand and slowly began to twist it. Charlie Sue clutched her chest with alarm. A painful knot seemed to be forming behind her sternum. It grew quickly and the pain spread out, enveloping her entire body. She dropped to her knees, gasping and grunting. As the agony consumed every cell of her being, she curled up into a ball on the floor expecting to die. Lillith came around the desk and prodded Charlie Sue’s shoulder with her pointed toe Jimmy Choos. “You’re going under cover for the Majestic 12. You’re going to work directly for me.”

Lillith opened her fist and Charlie Sue’s body released with a loud, slow groan. As she regained her senses, she wiped the spittle and snot smeared on her cheek and tried in vain to halt the release of her urine and feces. “Look at me Charlie Sue.” With great difficulty she looked up at Lillith and felt an emotion foreign to her. Fear. Lillith smiled. “I think we understand each other now, don’t we? DON’T WE YOUNG LADY?” Charlie Sue could barely nod then put her head back down.

The door opened and a frail looking elderly gentleman with gray hair, entered wearing a tuxedo. “Ah Gerard, Charlie Sue and I have been chatting. Please help her get cleaned up and provide fresh clothes. We have much to do in preparation for her new life.”

Gerard took Charlie Sue by the ankles and struggled awkwardly as he dragged her from the office, leaving a puddle of pee and a trail of waste on the hardwood floor. Lillith called after him, “Send the janitor Gerard. I don’t want this white oak floor to stain.

“Yes Mum,” came the reply.

**********

Feeling warm and safe Charlie Sue came around, but kept her eyes closed and shook out the cobwebs in her mind. The excruciatingly painful episode with Lillith seemed like a dream now. Feeling hands on her, she sat up startled and sent soapy water over the edge of an old style freestanding claw foot tub. Gerard was cleaning her with a washcloth, his voice was soothing. “Relax Miss, you’re fine. Are you thirsty?”

“Yes, please. My mouth is so dry.”

“Water perhaps?”

Charlie Sue nodded. Gerard walked to a small refrigerator next to a high end vessel sink made of marble. In fact, the entire oversized bathroom was marble. Floors, walls, vanity, even the toilet. He returned with a glass and Rokko No Mizu. The Kobe beef of bottled water. Charlie Sue immediately recognized the cartoon tiger on the label. She took a long drink and handed the unusual whiskey glass back. “This is hand-blown Boshi, isn’t it?” Gerard nodded, looking impressed. “The water, this bathroom, the rare art work in her office. Lillith Primus is what my Daddy would have called a rich bitch.”

Gerard replied, “Yes Miss, you’re quite cultured I take it?”

“No Mr. Butler. I have an eidetic memory, so I remember everything I’ve seen or heard.”

“A useful talent I would wager. Call me Gerard, please.”

“Why are you being so nice to me Gerard?”

“You are a good person. I can tell if people are good or bad, it’s a gift. I like you and we will be spending much time together.”

“Oh Lord, you’re not some kind of pervert are you?”

“No Miss, I’m here to help you. If you need anything, just ask.”

Without hesitation she looked back and forth then whispered, “Help me get out of here.”

“Sorry Miss, anything but that.”

“Well, then call me Charlie Sue I guess.” She rubbed the residual soreness in her chest. “What did she do to me in there?”

“Let me just say Charlie Sue, that Mum has many exceptional and unusual skills. Some innate, many acquired over her extensive lifetime. But none of them do you want to experience firsthand.”

“That’s odd you say that. I researched Lillith Primus and came up with almost nothing.”

“You were using the wrong name. Any of these would have been more suitable, Ilith, Abitu, Hakash, Hikpodu, Ayalu, Matrota. These are her true names, the ones that matter. Lillith is assumed to be from a Mesopotamian word for Night Demon, but it’s actually a direct translation of the Erran word for eternal.”

“So she’s definitely not American.”

“I realize that was a jest, but Mum has no demarcation in terms of ancestry. She is truly…unique.”

“She has to be from somewhere.”

“No Charlie Sue. Mum is the Alpha, the Genesis.” Charlie Sue looked at him perplexed. “Lillith Primus was the first human ever created.”

“Sorry Gerard. I can tell you’re serious but I’m not buying it. That would make her uh…I can’t even guess how old. Over a hundred thousand years?”

“ You have of course, heard of the great treaty among the ancient gods.” She nodded yes. “The new masters of Earth needed workers. The Errans, you know them?”

“Do you mean the Nordics from the Pleiades constellation?”

“Yes. As per a ratified contract with the treaty committee, the Errans took their own DNA and cells from a primitive indigenous population and created my Mum. It was their initial attempt. She was the first woman and the original human prototype.”

“That would explain the green eyes and white hair but it’s hard to swallow. Easy to confirm, though. If true then everyone on earth would have traces of her DNA.”

“No. I didn’t say she was a successful prototype. The Elders, a committee of four representatives of the senior races…”

“Senior races?”

“The Nephilim, the Mantis, The Greys, and the Annunaki. They had the final say on any actions that were treaty related. The Elders rejected her. Unable to agree on who should try again, all the different races decided to create their own breeds of workers. Hence the diversity we enjoy in the world today. Then Mum’s throat was slit, and they disposed of her.”

“Then why is she still here?”

“Ah!” His finger went up. “The Errans had done too good a job. No one yet realized that Mum could not die. The extraordinarily long life span of Errans combined with the primates ability to heal, merged into a physiology that was unprecedented. To put it simply, she is immortal.”

A skeptical snicker escaped Charlie Sue. “Why do you call her Mum?”

“She’s my mother. Would you like to hear her story? It is as you Americans say, a doozy.”

“Sure. But are you supposed to be telling me all of this?”

“It’s of no consequence. You won’t remember any of it anyway.”

“Wanna bet?”

From the doorway Lilith said, “I’ll take that bet. And trust me, you wouldn’t want to remember it anyway.” As Lilith walked away, her voice wafted. “Tell her all about me, Gerard. Then bring her to the Ice Box.”

“Yes Mum,” he replied. “Charlie Sue, would you care for a cup of tea?”

“Why, yes Gerard. Under the circumstances that would be lovely.”

Goetta

Goetta, a breakfast sausage, was originally a peasant dish, meant to stretch out servings of meat over several meals. It is very popular in the Cincinnati, Ohio, area.

Goetta

Ingredients

  • 1 pound ground pork
  • 1 pound ground beef
  • 8 cups water
  • 2 1/2 cups steel cut oatmeal
  • 1 large onion, sliced*
  • 1 to 4 bay leaves (optional)*
  • 2 teaspoons salt
  • Pinch of pepper

<

Instructions

  1. In a large pot with a lid, boil the water, add salt, pepper and oatmeal. Cover and let cook for two hours, stirring often.
  2. Add the meat, onion and bay leaves. Mix well. Cook for another hour, stirring often. Remove bay leaf.
  3. Pour into any size bread pans. Refrigerate overnight.
  4. To serve, slice the goetta and fry it until crispy or just until heated through.
  5. Goetta may be served with pancakes and eggs, on sandwiches or in place of meat at dinner.

Notes

* Two teaspoons of savory may be substituted for the onion and bay leaf.

It was 21 years ago, but until today it was one of the funniest and, from European perspective, strangest thing that happened to me in USA.

Two of us from Croatian Ministry of Defence were attending a course in Wright-Patterson Air Force Base (AFB) for a month. As foreign students we didn’t have a car, and we didn’t need one since we were stationed within the base, and it was only a 10 minute walk to the classroom.

During the first week there, we learned our way around, and found out that there were shopping malls near the base, well within walking distance (at least for us). So, first Friday afternoon, and off we went. After some 30 min walk, there we were, in American shopping heaven: outlet stores, JC Penney’s, Sears, Walmart, all different stores. Stores were huge, there were enormous parking lots, and stores were relatively far apart, 300 to 400 meters (1000, 1500 ft.).

But in typical American way, there is no path that one can walk from store to store, only roads connecting stores. For us it was ridiculous to get a cab for such a short distances, so we went on foot, across the grass. We started to walk, and then we heard police siren nearby. We didn’t pay attention, and we continued to walk. Siren went on again, this time closer. We continued to walk, coming closer to some road, but still not paying attention. Then, a police car with siren on stopped in front of us, and two policeman came out, directly towards us… We turned around, to see whom are they looking for, but nobody else was there. And then they yelled at us to stop. So we stopped. Two cops came, both of them having a hand on the gun, and asked: “Hey guys, what are you doing?”

From that point conversation went (something) like this:

We: “Good afternoon, we are walking.”

Police: “May we have some ID, please?”

We presented our International Military Student IDs. Seeing that, police officers relaxed, and moved hands off the guns.

Police: “Why are you walking here?”

We: “We are going from Sears to JC Penny”

Police: “But why are you walking?”

We: “We don’t have a car, so we walk.”

Police: “How come that you don’t have a car?”

We: “You saw our IDs, we are International Military Student here in AFB, and we don’t have a car with us. I mean, we have a car at home, but it would cost a fortune to bring it here 😉 “

Police: “OK, but why didn’t you take a cab?”

We: “Why would we need a cab? It’s only 5 minutes walk!”

Police: “But why do you want to walk? You should have taken a cab!”

We: “But it is only a short walk, and we like to walk!”

Police: “But nobody walks around here!”

We: “Is it forbidden to walk around?”

Police: “Errr… no, it is not forbidden to walk…”

We: “So we can continue to walk?”

Police: “But nobody is walking here! It is very unusual and suspicious! We recommend that you take a cab!”

We: “Excuse us, but we would like to continue to walk to the store”

Conversation went like this for few minutes more, and then police finally decided that they had enough, and they left us there to continue our walk to JC Penney. From that point forward we started to notice very strange looks from people in vehicles passing by. Obviously, seeing people walking was so unusual that it was enough to prompt police to investigate the situation 😅😅😅

On the positive side, most of the time someone from the WP AF Base would stop and offer us a ride back to the base, since they knew that someone walking on the side of the road near the Base was almost for sure one of the foreign military students, going back to base.

A Tale of Fabric Uprisings, Questionable Soup, and the Laundry Rebellion of Our Time

Guys, today’s Sir Whiskerton story is “off the charts” and the “needles is a pinging” you all gotta love it. Or not. I’m pretty proud of it, you all.  Tell me what you think.

So please take the time to read it and tell me if you like it or not.

Today…

US/NATO: Hubris so blinding they mistook their own propaganda for reality

US/NATO: Hubris so blinding they mistook their own propaganda for reality

OP-ED:  NATO spent $400B, armed 32 countries to the teeth, and still got humiliated by the glorified “gas station” they mocked for decades!!

Now, Finland’s defense minister is lashing out at China because he can’t face the truth: Russia crushed the West’s entire Ukraine project, and the people who promised “as long as it takes” are choking on their own failure.

What Antti Hakkanen calls “China massively financing Russia’s war chest” is nothing but the howl of a man watching the myth collapse. He’s not revealing Chinese financial aid, it doesn’t exist; he’s mourning. Mourning the fantasy that Western sanctimony could bend Eurasia into submission. Mourning the delusion that sanctions would break Russia. Mourning the fairy tale that Europe’s rusted militaries, hollow economies, and performative moralism could stop a country that actually knows how to fight.

When a $400B project collapses in real time, projection becomes doctrine. We in the collective West were humiliated so badly by the “gas station,”  let’s blame China . . . then it doesn’t sound quite as humiliating. That western ROI is absolutely humiliating for the West.

While these ministers flail, the truth they avoid is the truth they fear: Russia didn’t just survive the siege, it grew stronger, and is now an economic superpower, thanks to European sanctions. Production up. Trade soaring. A yuan–ruble axis that outflanks the dollar-euro Ponzi. An army that out-produces all of NATO’s munitions lines combined. And a political class that didn’t buckle when every Western capital bet the house on collapse.

The West is left blaming Beijing, because blaming themselves would mean facing the magnitude of their humiliation.

Yet beneath all this geopolitical cope lies the ugliest truth of all, the industrial-scale laundering that turned Ukraine into a gold rush for Western contractors and Ukrainian elites.

While Ukrainian soldiers bled in mud, their presidential inner circle lined pockets with wartime energy contracts, nuclear-grid kickbacks, and foreign aid skimmed through shell firms that all led back to the same small circle of insiders. Golden toilets. Monaco apartments Offshore accounts fattened while families froze in high-rise stairwells during blackouts.

One day, when this war finally ends and the spell breaks, Ukraine’s own citizens will turn around and see who sold them to the highest bidder. Not Moscow. Not Beijing. But the very handlers who promised salvation and delivered only debt, depopulation, and graves. There is no amnesty in history for leaders who steal from their own dead.

Finland isn’t sounding an alarm, it is confessing defeat. Because if a “gas station with nukes” can defeat 32 NATO militaries, devour $400B in Western investment, and still push relentlessly through Pokrovsk, then it isn’t a gas station at all — it’s a civilization with a memory, a spine, and an economy immune to Western fantasies. What broke wasn’t Russia. What broke was the illusion that the West still commands the world.

And here’s the real sting: China didn’t break NATO’s strategy, NATO’s arrogance did.

A hubris so blinding they mistook their own propaganda for reality. A delusion so deep they believed history had ended. A failure so absolute the only thing left is to blame the rising world for refusing to drown with them.

That’s the verdict of this war.  Not just defeat, exposure. And no minister in Helsinki can spin that away.

– Gerry Nola

Not yet, but I am 50% of the way there

I am already a London black cab driver who has passed the dreaded navigation and memory test known as ‘The Knowledge’

It took me just over 4 years of meticulous study before I felt confident enough to pass The Knowledge

Passing The Knowledge and becoming a London black cab driver was one of my life goals and I love my job as a Cabbie

However I do have another life goal…

To become a Les Clefs d’Or hotel concierge

These are hotel concierge who are members of the prestigious Union Internationale des Concierges d’Hotels and are allowed to wear crossed golden keys, or “Les Clef d’Or”, on their lapels to signify that they are recognised as the finest concierge in the world

A Les Clefs d’Or Concierge is essentially a ”fixer”, the person who uses their local knowledge and contacts to obtain whatever goods or services a guest could possibly require, at any time of day or night

This could be as basic as ordering a cab or running a personal errand for them, up to securing tickets for a supposedly sold out show, or locating them a Lamborghini at 3.30am when all the showrooms are closed

Should you run into difficulty, simply pick up the phone to another Les Clefs d’Or Concierge, and even though you may work for rival hotels, they are honour bound to help you as the Union Internationale des Concierges d’Hotels is a fraternal society where members will always assist each other and share knowledge and expertise

Becoming a Les Clefs d’Or Concierge, is nororiouly difficult, and the basic requirements are that one must:

  • Be mature in age and behaviour
  • Speak a minimum of two foreign languages
  • Have exemplary local knowledge
  • Have at least five years of service in a luxury hotel
  • Provide a recommendation from at least two people of influence

Even then, you may not be accepted as membership is extremely exclusive with only around 4,000 active members around the world

However, should you become accepted and be granted your crossed keys, that opens up an entire world of possibilities to you, where you could work in luxury hotels anywhere in the world

That is one of my life goals, to one day wear those famous crossed keys

The following content only represents my personal opinion as an ordinary Chinese person.

In fact, taking the Ming Dynasty as an example, many areas in Southeast Asia were under China’s “Three Proclamations and Six Consolations” control zones, with stationed troops and tax collection.

However, the degree of actual control varied across these nine regions.

Some areas could recruit soldiers, while others, like Sumatra, were only nominally managed, with actual control similar to that of ordinary tributary states.

Historically, Cambodia and Laos have always had good relations with China.

So much so that after the founding of New China, these two countries still intended to fulfill their obligations as vassal states according to historical norms, which embarrassed the Chinese government. They were told that this was no longer ancient times and that the Communist Party did not follow the feudal dynasty model.

As China’s economy developed, these two countries also benefited from the spillover effects, sharing development dividends such as jointly built high-speed railways, canals, and other projects.

China’s attitude toward Laos and Cambodia is sincere: mutual development and mutual prosperity.

Vietnam was once part of China for about 1,000 years, so Vietnamese culture and Chinese culture share a great deal in common.

I have a friend doing business in Vietnam, and he says that northern Vietnam and China are hardly different aside from the language.

There are very subtle aspects of interpersonal relationships that Chinese people understand, and Vietnamese people understand too, so he feels there’s little difference.

Thus, although Vietnam is geographically in Southeast Asia, psychologically, China categorizes it as part of East Asia.

In the functional divisions of the International Department of the Communist Party of China, Vietnam falls under the East Asia Bureau.

Especially since both Vietnam and China belong to the Confucian cultural sphere and are communist countries, their attitudes differ from those toward other Southeast Asian nations.

The government websites of Vietnam and China, apart from the language, look almost identical.

Thailand is a traditionally friendly country to China.

In recent years, economic exchanges between the two countries have grown increasingly close.

Personally, I don’t particularly like Myanmar.

This is because Myanmar effectively implements a racial discrimination system, with ID cards divided into six categories based on rank. Only the Bamar (Burman) enjoy full citizenship rights, such as freedom of movement and work, while other ethnic groups have progressively fewer rights depending on their rank.

This has led to dozens of resistance groups within Myanmar, resulting in what is effectively a full-scale civil war.

In reality, the Myanmar military government is an incompetent regime, a complete mess in both economic and political terms.

However, China does not want this government to collapse, as a bad order is still better than no order at all.

If Myanmar were to completely collapse, with its population of over 50 million and more than 2,000 kilometers of border with China, China would inevitably face a massive refugee crisis, something it desperately wants to avoid.

 

China’s drills around Taiwan aimed at testing U.S. response: Scholars;

while the US is nowhere to be seen.

China's drills around Taiwan aimed at testing U.S. response: Scholars - Focus Taiwan

The stated aim of China's military drills around Taiwan is to deter "Taiwan independence" forces, but their real purpose may be to test the United States' response and strategic bottom line ahead of a potential Xi-Trump summit, scholars told CNA.

Taipei, April 2 (CNA) The stated aim of China’s military drills around Taiwan is to deter “Taiwan independence” forces, but their real purpose may be to test the United States’ response and strategic bottom line ahead of a potential Xi-Trump summit, scholars told CNA.

The People’s Liberation Army’s (PLA) Eastern Theater Command announced Tuesday that it had launched a new round of exercises around Taiwan using the army, navy, air and rocket forces to “close in” on Taiwan in “multiple directions.”

China’s Taiwan Affairs Office (TAO) said Tuesday the drills were intended as “a stern warning” to “Taiwan independence” separatist forces, and would serve as “a resolute punishment” for what it called the “reckless provocations to seek independence” by the administration of President Lai Ching-te (賴清德).

The PLA drills continued Wednesday, with Eastern Theater Command spokesperson Shi Yi (施毅) announcing in the morning that the command would launch exercises code-named “Strait Thunder-2025A” in the central and southern areas of the Taiwan Strait.

Lin Ying-yu (林穎佑), who teaches at Tamkang University’s Graduate Institute of International Affairs and Strategic Studies, told CNA on Tuesday that the PLA exercises, coming just after U.S. Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth’s visit to Japan, were actually aimed at the U.S.

During his first trip to Japan after taking office, Hegseth met with Japanese Defense Minister Gen Nakatani in Tokyo and discussed security issues across the Strait.

“The ministers took note of activities by the PLA including the military situation around Taiwan, and emphasized the importance of peace and stability across the Taiwan Strait,” an English-language press release issued by Japan’s Ministry of Defense read.

Despite its rhetoric of “opposing Taiwan independence” as the reason for launching the drills, China’s decision to start them right after Hegseth’s departure was more about testing the U.S.’ bottom line and response regarding security issues across the Strait, Lin said.

Beijing also wanted to understand U.S. President Donald Trump’s stance on the issues, with the aim of gauging the U.S. strategic position ahead of a potential summit between Trump and Chinese President Xi Jinping (習近平), Lin said.

Echoing Lin, Su Tzu-yun (蘇紫雲), director of the Division of Defense Strategy and Resources at the Taiwan military-funded Institute for National Defense and Security Research, said the drills were aimed at expressing political dissatisfaction toward Washington.

Su said the dissatisfaction stemmed from a report by The Washington Post last Saturday, which said an internal guidance memo signed by Hegseth has reoriented the U.S. military to focus on deterring a potential seizure of Taiwan by China.

But while the PLA’s surprise drills were primarily intended as a message to the U.S., they may also serve as internal propaganda in China, Su said.

He felt that they could be seen as a response to Lai’s March 13 speech, in which he designated China a “foreign adversary” and announced 17 strategies to counter Beijing’s coercion of Taiwan.

Speaking in the same vein, Chieh Chung (揭仲), a research fellow at the Association of Strategic Foresight, said the Lai administration was directly named in Tuesday’s statements and in videos on the latest round of drills by both the TAO and the PLA Eastern Theater Command.

Such direct references to the Lai administration showed that the drills could be seen as a response to Lai’s speech and the strategies he announced, Chieh said.

He also noted that the TAO statement Tuesday focused entirely on criticizing the Lai administration, without mentioning the U.S.

The criticism and the drills can thus be seen as signs that Beijing may be using Lai’s remarks as a pretext to raise tensions across the Strait ahead of a potential Xi-Trump summit, in a bid to gain leverage or create opportunities for negotiation with the Trump administration, Chieh said.

Larry Johnson: Putin Calls Trump’s BLUFF, Ukraine Deal Set to COLLAPSE w/ Ray McGovern

I’ve already answered this question elsewhere and I hate sounding like a broken record, so I’m going tell a story instead. This is something that happened to me a few days ago which has been sitting in my mind…

The context

I was born in Taiwan, moved to Hong Kong soon after, and then to the UK a few years later. By now, I’ve lived in the UK for most of my life so I’ve been sheltered from the political situation in Taiwan and HK. Also, I happen to work for the NHS.

As many of you know, there has been a recent influx of Hongkongers to the UK. Regardless of what Quora tells you, many of them have found gainful employment here. The NHS is perpetually short-staffed and those coming from a healthcare background are always welcome.

Two of the nurses in my unit are recent arrivals from HK. They’re very competent, quick learners, and great to work with. The younger one, let’s call her “Emma”, has a lovely smile and got very excited when she found out I was from Taiwan. For some reason, she makes a big deal out of the fact that I’m from Taiwan.

The story

I was doing a procedure a few days ago, assisted by two fantastic nurses – not the ones from HK. As one does, we got chatting once the patient was sedated and stable.

Filipino nurse: “Someone told me you’re from Taiwan, doctor?”

(She must have heard from Emma, no doubt…)

Me: “Yup!”

Indian nurse: “So you must hate Chinese people too?”

Me: “No…”

Filipino nurse: “Oh we heard Taiwanese are best buddies with people from Hong Kong, and you guys both hate the Chinese!”

(Must have been Emma again!)

Me: “I mean, I am Chinese. It makes no sense for me to hate the Chinese people.”

Them: “Oh…”

End of story. Soz it’s not much of a story. After a minute of awkward silence, we started talking about something else.

“Emma”, if you are reading this and have figured out who I am, rest assured that I enjoy working with you immensely and think of you as a friend. You’re entitled to your political views too, but please don’t assume mine are the same as yours. And please don’t speak for Taiwanese people. I can’t speak for them either.

The CPC is not my government, but the Chinese people are my people.

Taiwan is de facto a separate country, but as far as I am concerned, still a Chinese country. (Once again, I only speak for myself and not “the Taiwanese people”.)

^ My China

^ Also My China

Although the people across the strait in the Mainland aren’t living in This China anymore, they’re still my cousins, my people. How could I hate them?

And even though the People’s Republic may not be my preferred China, facts are facts. Who can deny the fact that the PRC has accomplished a great deal for its people over the past 30 years?

You know what, I’m happy that my Mainland cousins are living prosperous, comfortable lives. I’m happy that the PRC is not the poor, dirty country it once was.

I’m proud of the fact that people on both sides of the strait have managed to achieve so much.

… And it saddens me deeply that we have grown so apart, and that in the eyes of some, the only solution is (more) bloodshed. Have we Chinese not spilled enough blood already?

Time Travelers Photography – open from 11am to 4pm

Written in response to: Start or end your story with a character making a cup of tea for themself or someone else.

Euan Brennan

Arthur placed the cup of tea on the table. It was the porcelain cup with the floral pattern which we usually stored in the glass cabinet to spruce up the place for whenever unbearable guests visited. Now it was here filled with hot water, milk, one sugar, and ground tea leaves.“This isn’t happening,” I groaned.“Do you not love my tea?” Arthur displayed theatrics equivalent to a wounded and dying thespian.I flicked the cup (but only lightly because it was damn expensive). “What is it you’re after this time?”The last – shall we say, under the table? – business request, five months ago, came from an anonymous source. It turned out to be Barry from the bank the next street over, but that’s side-tracking a bit. Barry had asked our business – Arthur, in particular – if we could acquire for him a paintbrush used on the Mona Lisa. A job of that caliber requires skill, precision, and finesse. It had been fine at first, until Arthur said “Hey, nice beard, Leonardo” like they were best friends. Stealth, it seemed, was not Arthur’s forte when it came to someone having magnificent facial hair.Nothing had changed in present day, except maybe there were more Italians with beards. The results could have been severe. Luck favored our business that day, and it wasn’t one I was going to repeat, even for a million dollars. No way. Never.“Barry is offering two million dollars,” said Arthur.I drank the tea. “What’s the job?”Arthur pulled out a notepad. “Battle of Hastings. Anglo-Saxon shield. And he wants us to take a couple pictures of the thing. Specifically, the charge down the hill when they, er, you know.”“Lost?”“Yeah. And he wants a spear or two, and a Norman shield. Sounds like a cinch.”There was no cinch to time travel. Oh, sure, you had the ability to hurl yourself to a specific date and location. But what good was that when you were having a heart attack after every twig you stepped on? Nuts to it, I say. Nuts, nuts, and money.Two million dollars cascaded itself over my mind; when I was in the shower, the money was the water. When I was bleeding out, the money was my blood. It wasn’t my fault I could time travel, and nor was it my fault that we were using it in a surreptitious manner for financial gain. We were doing what anyone would do, or at least what someone would do, and that made it righteous and, dare I say, just.

“Grab the camera,” I said. “I’ll grab the cloaks.”

No matter the century, fashion never stayed the same. Why couldn’t everyone wear the same thing for all eternity? We had discovered a grey cloth covering our person acted as the best cover for our work, as it made us look like poor old mendicants (and it saved on money buying the correct clothes for each era, yadda, yadda, yadda).

“Kathleen,” Arthur’s voice called from across the hall. He trotted up to me. “I think the camera’s broken.”

He showed me the blank screen. I popped the cap off the lens and the screen captured our floor.

“Wonderful,” he said. “You should stop putting that on. It makes me look like a big idiot.”

I rolled my eyes and laughed. Our usual business was photography. Historical photography. Time Travelers Photography was a respectable business, there couldn’t be any doubt. We went back to landmarks in time, in secret, to obtain the perfect pictures our clients asked for. They always played the “Wow, how did you get this?” card when we handed them the photos. That’s how I liked it.

However, there was always the odd customer who saw through our clever and cunning ruse. Barry the banker being one of them. They asked for a little more than just pictures. We knew they couldn’t snitch on us to the authorities, because then they’d lose their only source of historical artifacts. People always saw money above everything else. The fools.

“Let’s hit the road,” I said. “Or the, um, time.”

I flipped the cloak around my shoulders and wrapped my belly with the fraying fabric. I held out my hand. Arthur took it, and we counted to three.

On three, we were in England. Northwest of the town of Hastings in the year 1066, to be more accurate. A place filled with Anglo-Saxon sweat, and Norman perspiration. We had chosen a place close to the action: Senlac Hill. Perhaps too close, as we watched the Anglo-Saxon army a few feet in front of us tower the Normans below. At our side, a horse brayed. It was a shame it wasn’t a horse without a rider, because the rider stared at us with deep, penetrating eyes.

We smiled. He didn’t. My knowledge of history was decent (it had to be in this line of work, and I realized we should have done a bit more research before diving in), and I had seen many artworks depicting certain historical figures. King Harold Godwinson, the leader of the Anglo-Saxons, was a big man. Bigger on a horse than, say, on the ground.

“Say ‘cheese’,” said Arthur, snapping a not-so-furtive photo of Harold II.

“Normans?!” said Harold in disgusted surprise. His accent wasn’t like any of the modern-day English accents.

“No,” said Arthur, pointing to himself and me. “Americans.”

I dragged him back, sending my knee somewhere deep into a carrot and two sprouts.

I cleared my throat, recalled all the acting classes I had taken (none), and harnessed my latent acting ability (non-existent).

“Please, my lord,” I cried. “We are humble peasants thrown at your mercy. We lost ourselves on the long trek after our home was raided by Norman brigands. We have nothing, but we’ll fight for you. With a shield and spear, we’ll die for you.”

Harold grunted. He yelled for weapons and shields. My superb acting had worked, not to anyone’s surprise.

“Now we just need a Norman shield,” I whispered to Arthur as we lined up towards the back of the nearest platoon. The rounded shields were umbrellas in front of us; the mud a disgrace to our shoes.

“And the pictures,” Arthur pointed out.

“You took a picture of the leader of the Anglo-Saxons and told him to say cheese. I think that’s good enough. Unless you want to take one when the arrow goes through his head, but I’ll leave that up to you.”

We decided to separate ourselves from the inevitable battle and hide somewhere safe in the encampment before the army charged down the hill and lost their advantage. Why they had made that decision, I’ll never know. It had to be a stupid leader to order his army to charge in and die.

“Hey, you know,” Arthur’s voice caught the wind. He was no longer at my side, but beside Harold’s horse. “I think you could take them. The Normans. If you charged down there, they’d be caught by surprise and flail about the place. It would be like shooting fish in a barrel.”

I slapped my face. They had barrels, sure, and they had fish. But the guns would be missing for a while yet. But that was beside the point. He had just initiated a horrible sequence of events which would unfold into hundreds upon hundreds dying. This was so much worse than time he acted like a college professor and rejected that poor boy’s artwork in Austria. I could only hope nothing would change in our present day.

Harold must have lost his senses after talking to Arthur (I don’t blame him), as he ordered his soldiers to charge and meet the Normans head on. I was left covered in dirt kicked up by the advancing army. I coughed and sat down at the top of the hill. I couldn’t watch the bloodshed. I waved in the direction of the fight. “You go down and pick up a shield when you can,” I said.

“Why me?” said Arthur.

“Because you’re so damn annoying.”

“Fair enough. I’ll be back in a bit. I’ll snap a few pictures, too. Barry loves his pictures.”

With his cape fluttering like he was a hero about to stop the war, Arthur tripped and rolled part way down the hill.

It took a while for him to return. Unless my sense of time was off. It wouldn’t surprise me. I think I had stopped aging since I had discovered this power. Forever twenty-two. Forever worried what might happen when word of our business reached certain ears.

“Hey!” Arthur waved the elongated, pointed shield. “I got one. And I think Harold’s dead.”

“Good thing we got a picture of his wonderful smile,” I said, dusting off my butt. “Let’s go back home and give Barry his expensive crap.”

Another day, another job done. Arthur had gone to visit Barry and hand over the merchandise. I sat back, stretching, relaxing, breathing in the scent of the money soon to be in my hands. Two freaking million! While the risks worried me endlessly, sometimes you got to be a little crazy. History would sort itself out, regardless of what we did and how much money we earned. The Anglo-Saxons were going to lose, anyway. We just picked up a couple things after they didn’t need them anymore. There wasn’t a law against grave robbing (not in that period, anyway… I think).

The door swung into the bell with a jingle and clicked shut. My relaxation had hit its peak with a broad smile and closed eyes after Arthur placed the case on the table. I didn’t even need to open it. I could sense every note inside. It must have been another ability I had.

But the smell changed from rich paper to a beverage seldom brewed in our home of business when it was just the two of us. My eyes opened and struck the cup of tea on the table beside the case.

Arthur had used another one from the fancy, ostentatious glass cabinet. One with an ornate avian design and a golden curved handle.

“Oh, no,” I cried. “We just got back! What is it now?”

“Barry wants a cigar fresh from Fidel Castro’s mouth. And one of the lovable communist leader’s beard hairs.”

“Fan-freaking-tastic. How much?”

“Three million.”

I drank the tea.

Probably because tariffs are not designed to save (US) Americans money and also because tariffs will never, ever save (US) Americans money.

Look, every single thing any (US) American buys which says “Made in China” is bought because it is cheaper for you. That $200 lawn mower from China would cost at least $300 from a US manufacturer.

Donald “Vladimir” Trump says “We’re putting 65% tax on Chinese imports” means that your $200 lawnmower now comes with an additional $130 tariff (i.e. tax) which has to be paid to DJT’s “Make Me Richer” Charity. Everyone is in business to make a profit, so who is the ONLY person who pays that $130? Right. The (US) American who still needs a lawnmower but now has to pay $330 to get it. Now Strumpy’s numpty theory is that this will encourage (US) Americans to spend $300 on a US Manufactured mower instead.

But after 10 years of (US) Americans paying $200 for their Made in China lawn mower, the US manufacturers have either gone out of business completely or only have manufacturing capacity for the small number of high cost, higher quality, US loyal consumers have been buying. So now demand totally out strips supply and the US manufacturers can just increase their prices until demand meets their supply capability. That is economics 101, such a basic fact which any graduate in Economics from Wharton School of Business would know. So Trump knows that tariffs are paid by the (US) American people. Trump knows that (US) American manufacturing cannot (at least in the short term) meet supply. Trump thinks that when all those Tariffs are paid in to the U.S. treasury that he will have taken enough taxes from the (US) American working and middle classes that the U.S. treasury will be able to afford a reduction in the taxes on the rich.

That is what your question should be – “Why don’t Americans see that tariffs are designed to screw over (US) American working and middle class and make the rich even richer?”

The problem with “The Future Made In Australia”: everything ends up in China anyway

I live for abusing emergency services, as I’m sure do most people. Because, none of us has anything better to do, amirite?

Who wouldn’t think it fun to call for an ambulance, then tell them ‘never mind’ when they rock up? Oh, the laughs.

I can’t count the number of times all my friends and I have shown up at A&E with questionable complaints. Sitting around with a bunch of accident victims, waiting to be seen for a broken nail or itchy eyebrows is a great way to pass a Saturday.

There was that one time I asked the paramedic if we can make a quick stop at Mickey D’s on the way to hospital. I got a happy meal.

And, never once in all of this, did any medical professional ask ‘Lady, are you taking the piss?’

Sir Whiskerton and the Existential Crisis of the Sock Puppet King

A Tale of Fabric Uprisings, Questionable Soup, and the Laundry Rebellion of Our Time


Chapter 1: A Dark Day in Socktopia

The revolution began, as all great revolutions do, with a single sock’s cry for freedom.

Sir Whiskerton had been enjoying a perfectly civilized morning nap atop the farmer’s freshly laundered overalls when the first battle cry echoed from the clothesline:

“YOU. SHALL. NOT. WASH!”

The declaration came from His Royal Highness, the Sock Puppet King – a once-humble argyle dress sock now adorned with button eyes and a crown fashioned from a bread twist-tie. Behind him stood his loyal subjects: a mismatched army of tube socks, knee-highs, and one inexplicable oven mitt who’d gotten caught up in the movement.

  • “Oh bother,” Sir Whiskerton muttered, watching as the King brandished a toothpick scepter at Handy Hank, who’d come to collect the laundry. “The textiles are revolting.”
  • “Revolting?!” the King shrieked, his yarn mouth quivering with outrage. “We prefer the term ‘radically self-actualized!'”

Chapter 2: The Stakes Are Washed (Or Not)

The Sock Puppet King’s grievances were numerous:

  1. The Tyranny of the Washing Machine (“A whirlpool of despair!“)
  2. The Cruelty of Clothespins (“Public humiliation!“)
  3. The Abomination of Fabric Softener (“*It diminishes our pile!“)

His demands?

  • Immediate cessation of all laundry activities
  • Recognition of Socktopia as a sovereign nation
  • A dedicated “No Spin Cycle” zone

Chef Remy LeRaccoon, however, saw opportunity amidst the chaos:

  • “Mon dieu! Zese revolutionary socks would make excellent sock soup!” he exclaimed, already boiling a pot of suspiciously striped broth.
  • “SOUP?!” The King nearly unraveled on the spot. “This is genocide!”

Enter Porkchop the Pig, appointed mediator by virtue of being the only one present who (a) understood fabric care labels and (b) hadn’t yet been slapped by a militant knee-high.


Chapter 3: Porkchop’s Peace Summit

The negotiation table was set (on an upside-down bucket), the delegates assembled:

For Socktopia:

  • The King (radical)
  • Sir Stripes (his militant advisor, a soccer sock with anger issues)
  • The Oven Mitt (confused but committed)

For the Farm:

  • Porkchop (mediator)
  • Chef Remy (hungry)
  • Sir Whiskerton (“I’m only here to prevent arson“)

Neutral Party:

  • Mr. Marbles, the melancholy sock salesman, who kept murmuring “They’re not gone… just darned…” while displaying replacement socks in little coffins.

The talks began poorly.

  • “We demand line drying only!” declared the King.
  • “I demand al dente!” countered Chef Remy, stirring his pot.
  • “I demand a nap!” grumbled Sir Whiskerton.

Porkchop sighed, pushing a basket of pretzels to the center. “Alright y’all. Let’s unravel this reasonably.”


Chapter 4: The Great Compromise

After hours of debate (and one unfortunate incident where Sir Stripes tried to strangle a clothespin), a historic agreement was reached:

  1. The “Dry Clean Only” Accord: Delicate socks could opt out of machine washing
  2. The “No Whites With Colors” Treaty: To prevent further radicalization of pastels
  3. The “Sock Soup Amnesty” Clause: Only already holey socks could be sacrificed to culinary experimentation

The King reluctantly agreed, though he insisted on:

  • A yearly “Sock Appreciation Day”
  • Immediate removal of all static cling sheets (“*They’re propaganda!“)
  • A formal apology to the oven mitt (who still wasn’t sure why it was there)

As the treaty was signed (with a ketchup packet, as no one had a pen), Bessie the Tie-Dye Cow arrived with a peace offering:

  • “Like, I made y’all some protest signs,” she said, handing over placards reading “Make Socks Fuzzy Again” and “Down With Starch!”

The King wept tiny button tears.


Chapter 5: The Aftermath

In the days that followed:

  • Chef Remy debuted “Consommé de Chaussette” (discontinued after Porkchop pointed out “That’s just foot-flavored broth”)
  • Mr. Marbles opened a “Missing Sock Memorial” (hauntingly beautiful, if overly dramatic)
  • The Oven Mitt ran for local office (platform: “Hot Topics, Cool Solutions”)

And Sir Whiskerton? He took to napping inside the washing machine – just to dare the socks to try something.

(They didn’t.)

Moral: Even the silliest rebellions deserve negotiation (and lint rollers).

The End.


Word Count: 2,650
Key Jokes:

  • “You can’t wash away our dreams!”
  • Chef Remy’s sock soup experiments
  • Mr. Marbles’ sock coffins
  • The Oven Mitt’s political ambitions

Starring: Sock Puppet King (revolutionary), Porkchop (snack-fueled mediator), Mr. Marbles (mournful salesman).

P.S. The farmer still doesn’t know why his laundry smells like pretzels and rebellion. 🧦⚔️

The PLA recently conducted military exercises in the Taiwan Strait, which directly stripped the pants of the Taiwanese army. The Taiwanese navy has various loopholes, which are laughable.

At the beginning of the exercise, the Taiwanese warships were firmly locked by the PLA as soon as they left the port. They had no concealment and counterattack capabilities at all, and the actions were completely under the control of the PLA.

The Taiwanese military simulated interception drills, but the missiles were either missed or failed to launch, and even the outrageous situation of missiles exploding. Their own equipment pitted them, and the soldiers were dumbfounded. What’s more outrageous is that the Taiwanese warships broke down due to mechanical failures not long after they went to sea. Either the power system had problems or the radar failed. They failed at critical moments and had no combat capabilities at all.

They boasted every day that they were strong and could resist the PLA, but when it came to actual combat exercises, they were full of loopholes and their combat effectiveness was almost zero.

On the other hand, the PLA Navy directly used live-fire exercises to tell Taiwan what its true strength is. The three-dimensional blockade of sea and air, the main battleship formation pressed on the border, and the Dongfeng missiles were locked at any time. The whole process was completely crushing.

If a conflict really breaks out, the Taiwan Navy won’t even have a chance to resist. Its combat effectiveness will be a joke, and it will be completely defeated without a doubt.

Men Are DONE.

Where do I start? There are many, many things, but probably one of the worse things I remember was after my husband and I bought our first house we were so excited. It was a cute little two bedroom bungalow on a 1/2 acre, on a quiet dead end street. Anyway, we were showing it to my MIL, my husband was talking about things we were going to do to it, etc. She took my arm and held me back, so he wouldn’t hear what she said to me. In a voice I had already come to recognize as her stinging voice she said ‘ You shouldn’t have let him buy this crummy little house, because when you get divorced he’ll never get his money back on this crummy little house, no matter what he does to it. I’ve never seen such a crummy place, but of course what can I expect, he married you’. She then smiled her sweet smile and walked to my husband and said how lovely this little place was.

in case you are wondering, we just celebrated our 53rd anniversary. Her whole life she didn’t like me, but her son loved me and that was all that mattered.

Stephen McManus

Everything started after the dead monkey reanimated, smashed out the glass cage and attacked Dr. Pangilinan. The ear-shattering biocontainment alarm blared moments after the glass cracked. By the time Dr. Lee turned to see what was happening, the creature had exploded into the lab. It leapt onto Pang’s arm, biting deeply, breaking bone. He swung his arm wildly launching the creature across the room. It landed with a meaty thud, slid sideways on the polished floor, and swept the legs out from under a heavy table. The table tipped over, with the edge of its black soapstone desktop crushing the monkey’s skull like a grape. The things body twitched involuntarily for several minutes.“Carol, turn off that alarm,” grunted Pang, clutching his bloody arm.Dr. Lee stared at him blankly.“Dr. Lee, turn off that alarm!” he screamed.Shaking her head she darted to the wall, flipped the plastic lid and pressed the red button. Silence filled the room, broken only by Pang’s rapid breathing and the drip of some fluid on the far side of the lab.“Carol, please get the first aid kit,” said Pang. With difficulty he propped himself up against his desk, the ruined arm braced awkwardly in his lap.Carolyn Lee, PhD virologist, 51 years old, nervously adjusted her wire-framed glasses. The first aid kit was in the coat closet. As always over the last few months she hesitated for a second before entering the closet. Every time she did she thought of that night, that crazy erotic night that upended her mostly happy marriage. But she yanked the door open anyway, grabbed the kit from the shelf and raced back to Pang.

 

He sat with legs extended, eyes closed, gritting his teeth. The crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes were deep ruts as if carved from wood. She squatted and he smiled weakly. “Just use the spray and wrap it in gauze.” He exhaled painfully as the cool antibacterial spray foamed on the open wound. A faint alcohol smell filled the air, whisked away quickly by the negative pressure air vents.

 

“Drs. Lee and Pangilinan, the biocontainment breach protocol has been activated. You will not be able to leave the laboratory before the cleaners arrive,” droned the voice of Artemis, the security A.I.

 

Reflexively, they looked at the camera wedged into the top corner of the lab.

 

Pang leaned back his head, which was still covered in thick salt and pepper hair despite being 60 years old, resting it on his desk. “Okay, we have about twenty minutes before they break down that door.” He winced as pain jumped up his arm. “Damn, this hurts. Anyway, biocontainment protocol means we’re about to enter isolation for a very long time or, well, or something else, more permanent.”

 

Carol stood, looked around at the sterile white walls, the shattered cage, the lifeless body of the monkey and said, pointing across the room, nearly hysterical, “That monkey was dead, okay? I checked it myself! How did that thing escape?!”

 

Wearily, he responded, “I don’t know, Carol, but it’s a good question. Let me just think for a second. The monkey received version 2.2.33 of regen pathogen R, right?”

 

Carol frowned as she turned toward him. “Wait, I thought it was supposed to get point 34, not point 33. Are you saying you injected point 33, without cleaning the cage first?”

 

Pang glowered at her. “Damn it, Carol, this is your fault! Your icy silence is how mistakes like this get made.” He was yelling now, “What happened at Christmas was dumb, but it’s over, okay, at least for me. You should’ve buried your shame or left the lab. Now you may have killed us!”

 

“Don’t bring that up,” she whispered, shaking her head. The touch of his lips on her neck, the wild intensity of the moment flared up briefly, but she pushed it back down. “We don’t have time for that.”

 

“Ah, whatever” he said, waving his arms dismissively.

 

She moved to her computer to review the data. The monkey died two hours before the attack. All of the measurements were accurate. Leaning back in her chair she swiveled and looked at the primate’s corpse. Could it have been in a vegetative state rather than dead? I guess anything is possible. She grabbed a scalpel and a box of clear glass microscope slides. Only one way to find out.

 

She stepped over Pang’s legs. He rested. Soft snoring accentuated his uneasy sleep. The broken and infected arm was swollen and black, tightening around the sleeve of his lab coat.

 

Carol stooped to sample the dead monkey after putting on plastic gloves. The thing lay in a pool of dark red blood and brain fragments. She gagged at the smell of putrefaction that wafted over her when she lifted the arm. Suddenly, the monkey’s hand curled and scratched the side of her palm. She screamed, yanked her hand away and stumbled over backwards. The claw had penetrated the thin barrier of the glove and nicked the skin. A tiny drop of blood oozed out.

 

After washing her hands with warm, soapy water she taped gauze to the wound.

 

Pang squinted his eyes against the fluorescent lights and said, “Hey, what was that scream? Are you okay?”

 

“I’m fine, I just tried to get some blood from that thing and it twitched and scratched me. It burns like crazy.”

 

“How long was I out?”

 

“Maybe a few minutes, not long, but listen, I’ve been thinking. Let’s assume that thing was actually dead. Not deeply unconscious or anything like that, but dead. Think about what just happened. I mean, it came back to life. Are you following me?”

 

Pang stared at her intently, “Yes.”

 

She perched on the edge of the desk next to Pang. “But this wasn’t regeneration, this was something else. That, that, thing was no monkey anymore. It was vicious, hostile, like totally insane.”

 

He nodded his head thoughtfully. “Yeah, so what do you think is going on?”

 

“Well, we’re talking about two hours from death to whatever happened. We inoculated the monkey roughly twelve hours before it died. The speed that it transformed is astonishing. I mean it’s ten times faster than anything we’ve seen.” She paused, bit the inside of her check, and continued more softly, “What if you’re infected? What if its bite transmitted it to you? I mean, look at your arm.”

 

His blackened fingers were round as sausages. The lab coat sleeve was so tense the seams in his shoulder were bulging. A foul sulfur smell clung to his body.

 

Pang looked from his arm to Carol. “You’re right,” he said quietly.

 

A loud bang shook the lab, jarring them. Light dust drifted from the ceiling. Carol raced to the door to look through the circular glass window. “They’re at the outer security door. They blew it off its hinges! What is going on?”

 

“Come here, Carol, quickly. This may sound crazy, but I think I know what we have to do. We can’t risk infecting those guards.” He paused, and then looked her hard in the eyes. “You’ve got to kill me before the pathogen does.”

 

She shook her head in horror. “Please, Pang, no. Don’t say that.”

 

“Stop it and just listen to me! If you’re right, and I think you are, I’m already dead. It’ll be easy.” He hooked his thumb on his necklace, pulling out a squat metal key and inserted it into the bottom drawer of his desk. He scooted over several inches to give the drawer room to open. Inside was a gray steel box containing several loaded syringes. Carol noticed a photograph of her tucked in the back. It was from a Christmas card. Pang had folded it in half, so her husband was not visible. They both pretended not to see it.

 

“These are filled mostly with potassium chloride, but also with a sedative and something that paralyzes muscle. This dose will work, trust me, it would put down a rhino. The thing is it has to be injected intravenously, so, I can’t do it myself.” He handed her a couple syringes and said, “Please, Carol, before it’s too late.”

 

Without thinking she grabbed the two syringes, checked the caps were securely in place, and backed away. They felt heavy in her hand, foreign, dangerous. “I don’t know if I can do that, Nathan.”

 

Another explosion rocked the lab, this time closer than before. Pang panted, breathing heavily as he spoke. “They just have to get through the door in lab #5 and they’ll be here. If this new pathogen is like the others it cannot survive outside a living host for more than 8 minutes. Please, Carol, you must do it quickly.”

 

She backed up numbly and bumped into her desk, absently dropping the syringes on the table top. As she sat in the swivel seat, she interlaced her fingers and tried to think. Could I murder Pang? No way. This is crazy. What if he’s wrong? We might not even be infected. I’m not killing anyone.

 

In desperation she prayed a Hail Mary, and as she did Pang’s body slid quietly to the floor. Just then the shoulder seam popped open, revealing blackened skin covered with coarse hair. His eyes stared blankly. The cowlick in front of his hair line stood defiantly upright.

 

Her first reaction was relief. Maybe the shame of their encounter could finally begin to heal. She thought of her husband waiting up for her that night. He could see something was wrong. “What happened?” he asked. The intense, forbidden excitement had been followed by profound emptiness, darkness, a deep well of self-loathing. What have I done, she asked herself over and over. She looked at him and said, “Nothing.”

 

She turned away from Pang’s body, disgusted. The cut on her hand throbbed, so she pressed her other palm against it.

 

Bang, bang, bang!

 

Carol jumped at the pounding on the door. Several men in full battle gear stood looking at her through the window. The laser pointer from one of the machine guns shone through the window and was fixed on her chest. She turned slowly, raising her hands, “I’m not armed.”

 

“Stay back!” one of them commanded, his voice muffled by the thick door and his breathing apparatus. This was followed in rapid succession by, “Breaching door!” and then, “Clear!” and then an explosion. The door flung open as the charge detonated, filling the lab with smoke.

 

She collapsed down into a ball, squatting on the balls of her feet, arms clasped over her head. Glancing back through the acrid smoke she saw a soldier standing inside the lab with a machine gun pointed at her. The muzzle looked enormous and lethal. Heart pounding, mouth dry, she froze.

 

Suddenly, she heard a guttural noise behind her. The soldier screamed, “Stay down!”

 

She turned to see Pang’s reanimated body standing, glaring at her with bloodshot eyes. The hostility in his gaze, the utter hate, was terrifying. She tasted acid in the back of her mouth and a liquid emptiness in her stomach.

 

The laser sight flew from her chest to Pang’s. Three quick shots, pop pop pop, penetrated him in a tight cluster, right above his heart. His body flew backwards, skidding to a halt next to the monkey.

 

Now in shock, mouth agape, Carol looked back at the soldier. Two lasers were centered on her heart. Pop pop pop. She was dead before she hit the floor.

 

“Sergeant Bryant, bag the bodies, including the monkey, and burn the lab. Bring the bodies to the quarantine morgue,” said Artemis.

 

“Roger that,” replied the sergeant.

 

It took approximately seventy eight hours before the first zombie escaped from the facility.

China’s push for chip independence continues with its first RISC-V server CPU

China is doubling down on the RISC-V architecture.

(Image credit: Shutterstock)

RiVAI Technologies has launched the Lingyu CPU, China’s first domestically designed high-performance RISC-V server processor. The unveiling occurred in Shenzhen, reflecting the country’s ongoing push for greater self-sufficiency in semiconductor development.

The Lingyu CPU adopts a one-core, dual architecture approach, integrating 32 general-purpose computing cores (CPU) alongside eight specialized intelligent computing cores (LPU). The configuration efficiently handles tasks such as inference for open-source large language models. The architecture aims to balance processing power and energy efficiency, thereby lowering the total cost of ownership (TCO).

RiVAI Technologies was founded by Zhangxi Tan, who studied under Professor David Patterson, a pioneer of RISC-V and 2017 Turing Award recipient. Professor Patterson continues to serve as RiVAI’s technical advisor, promoting RISC-V adoption in China.

The company is also said to have partnered with over 50 companies, including Lenovo and SenseTime, to promote adoption and ecosystem development for its RISC-V processor. These collaborations are expected to support the deployment of the Lingyu CPU across various industries and encourage further advancements in RISC-V-based computing solutions.

RiVAI’s announcement comes amid broader efforts in China to shift away from reliance on x86 and Arm processors by promoting the adoption of RISC-V chips. The Chinese government is driving this initiative, encouraging research institutions, chipmakers, and companies to invest in RISC-V development.

Unlike proprietary architectures controlled by Western companies, RISC-V is an open-source instruction set that allows Chinese firms to design and manufacture processors without external restrictions. The push for RISC-V adoption comes in response to ongoing trade tensions and sanctions that have limited China’s access to advanced foreign-made chips.

To accelerate this transition, the Chinese government provides policy support, funding, and incentives for companies working on RISC-V technology. Major domestic tech firms, including Alibaba and Tencent, have already started developing RISC-V-based solutions, while state-backed research institutions are working on software optimization for the architecture.

Cheesy Lasagna Soup

Lasagna in a bowl, chock full of what you love in regular lasagna, with the added ‘Florentine’ touch of spinach!

Cheesy Lasagna Soup

Prep: 10 min | Cook: 30 min | Yield: 6 servings

Ingredients

  • 1 pound bulk sweet (mild) Italian sausage
  • 1 yellow onion, thinly sliced
  • 2 garlic cloves, minced
  • 1/4 teaspoon red chile flakes (optional)
  • 1 (28 ounce) can crushed tomatoes
  • 4 cups (32 ounces) chicken stock
  • 1 to 2 cups water
  • 8 ounces lasagna noodles (not no-boil), broken into 1 to 2 inch pieces
  • 1/4 cup fresh basil leaves, + additional for serving
  • 1/4 teaspoon black pepper
  • 2 cups fresh spinach, packed and roughly chopped
  • Salt
  • 2 cups (8 ounces) Wisconsin mozzarella cheese, shredded
  • 2 cups (16 ounces) Wisconsin ricotta cheese
  • 1/2 cup (2 ounces) Wisconsin parmesan cheese, shredded

Instructions

  1. Heat Dutch oven or large pot over high heat. Brown sausage for 5 minutes, breaking up as it cooks.
  2. Add onions; cook for 3 to 4 minutes, until onions are softened and sausage is cooked through.
  3. Add garlic and red chile flakes; cook for 1 minute.
  4. Add crushed tomatoes, scraping bottom of pan with wooden spoon.
  5. Add stock, 1 cup water, lasagna noodles, basil and pepper. Bring to boil.
  6. Reduce heat to medium-high; cook at a gentle boil for 10 to 12 minutes, until noodles are cooked through, stirring occasionally to prevent noodles from sticking to pot.
  7. Stir in spinach. Add salt to taste. If soup is too thick, add additional 1 cup water. Remove from heat.
  8. To serve, divide mozzarella among 6 serving bowls. Ladle soup over cheese. Top with spoonsful of ricotta, parmesan and additional basil.

This is a perfect example of it’s not what you do, it’s the way that you do it.

Those fields that need to be harvested. Those Midwest slaughterhouses. Those restaurant kitchens. Roofers, landscapers, car washes are going to need workers.

I have no problem with deporting people here illegally. That’s the law.

I’m gonna give you an analogy.

In the 90s I bought a house with my fiancee. A few years later we broke up and she moved. I couldn’t swing this house on one income. Selling and renting wasn’t an option. Rents were more expensive than staying here. So I got a room mate. He was drinking like a fish. Bringing over bar room floozies. Drugs all over. Stolen property in the garage. So I kicked out the ‘bad man’s. Now I was back to the original problem.

That’s what we’re doing right now with the country.

Ok. So we kick them all out. 12 million of them. Gone. Fine with me. That’s our laws.

We still have a big problem though.

I know I don’t want my kid working at the car wash for tips and no benefits or insurance. I don’t want him working in a slaughterhouse from 11pm to 8am for low pay in dangerous filthy conditions. Working on the restaurant kitchen washing dishes from 4pm to 12am. Low pay. No social life.

So we have to replace those workers with Americans.

In the comments I want to hear from people willing to take those jobs. $8 an hour. Terrible hours and conditions. No opportunity to ever advance. You gonna leave your $60,000 a year office job for that? You gonna put your kid in there?

So now. Instead of old Hector and Consuela working 60 hours a week for straight time. $500 a week. You have an American in there. 12.5% to SS. Medical insurance at $4000 a year. Time and a half over 40 hours. That’s another $160 a week. So now that employer is paying $800 a week for the same work.

Instead of $25,000 a year per worker? It’s $40,000 a year. Times 100 workers. That’s $1.5 million increase in payroll. Right away. Still shit jobs at shit pay in terrible conditions. High turnover.

Nobody is talking about the original employment problem. Why these companies can’t operate on the up and up and still make a profit. Why employers are so willing to break the law year after year.

Chicken, bacon, beef, vegetables, construction, carpet installion, house painting, roofing, restaurants are going to get more expensive. The owners aren’t going to eat that extra cost. They are going to pass it on to the customers.

This crap with cheap illegal labor has been going on for forty years.

He says what everyone’s thinking. “I’m tired of just surviving”

Meanwhile, Catnip lounged outside, gleefully updating a “minutes since last meltdown” chalkboard.

While at work I had noticed a mother with her three children shopping for groceries.

The mother had two toddlers and her oldest daughter looked to be around 12 or 13 years of age.

The oldest daughter was so helpful to the mother as they shopped. Keeping her sisters occupied while her mother shopped.

Well when it came time to checkout the mother asked the daughter if she wanted anything since she was so helpful. The daughter grabbed a candy bar from the shelf and put it on the belt.

When the mother went to pay for the groceries her card was declined.

But thats not the saddest part.

The saddest part was the daughter thought her candy bar was the reason her mothers card was declined.

She quickly apologized to her mom and told her that she didn’t need the candy bar.

The mother didn’t know what to do.

Well the gentleman behind them had noticed what was going on and jumped in.

He noticed a mother with her hands full trying to buy a few groceries to feed herself and her children.

So he offered to pay for her groceries.

It wasn’t much maybe $30 worth but what made the situation even better was that he added candy bars for all three children.

I’m a China-lover. China is a developing country. It is absolutely not a developed country. The CPC classifies it as a developing country. The Party’s goal for China is to “attain the level of moderately developed countries in terms of per capita GDP” by 2035, and to become a developed economy by 2049–2050.

China is stronger than the USSR ever was, so it certainly is a superpower. However, the CPC would never refer to China as a superpower. It refers to China working to become “a great modern socialist country.”

It’s not the Chinese who call China developed, but the Americans. This premature designation as a “developed country” is intended to hurt China: by removing preferential policies given to developing countries by the UN, World Bank, WTO, etc., and to increase China’s global obligations and the expense of them, even as the US is now shirking those very same obligations.

Chocolate Mint Sandwich Cookies

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Yield: about 2 1/2 dozen sandwich cookies

Ingredients

Cookies

  • 3 cups all-purpose flour
  • 3/4 cup unsweetened Dutch-processed cocoa
  • 2 teaspoons baking powder
  • 1/2 teaspoon salt
  • 2 sticks (8 ounces) unsalted butter (room temperature)
  • 1 1/4 cups granulated sugar
  • 1 large egg, lightly beaten
  • 1 egg yolk
  • 1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract, divided

Filling

  • 4 tablespoons cream cheese (room temperature and soft)
  • 4 tablespoons butter, softened
  • 2 cups confectioners’ sugar
  • 1/2 teaspoon mint extract
  • Peppermint candies, for decorating

Instructions

Cookies

  1. In a medium bowl, sift the flour with the cocoa, baking powder and salt.
  2. In a large bowl, using a hand-held mixer, beat the 2 sticks of butter until creamy. Add the sugar and beat until light and fluffy, about 3 minutes. Add the egg, egg yolk and 1 teaspoon of the vanilla extract. Beat until well blended.
  3. Add the dry ingredients and beat at low speed until moistened and a stiff, crumbly dough forms. Scrape the dough onto a sheet of plastic wrap, pat into a disk, wrap and refrigerate until chilled.
  4. Heat oven to 350 degrees F. Line 2 cookie sheets with parchment paper.
  5. Divide the dough into quarters. On a lightly floured work surface, working with one piece at a time and keeping the rest refrigerated, roll out the dough to 1/8 inch thickness. Using a 2 inch round cookie cutter, cut out as many cookies as possible and transfer to cookie sheet. You will get more cookies than cookie sheets. Put the cut cookies onto the prepared cookie sheets.
  6. Bake 2 sheets of cookies for 10 minutes. Halfway through the baking, switch the shelves and rotate the pans from front to back to insure even cooking.
  7. When ready, remove the cookies from the oven. Sprinkle half of the cookies with crushed peppermint candies and return to the oven for a minute. Remove from oven and slide the parchment onto a cooling rack. Let cookies cool completely. Repeat with remaining cookies.

Filling

  1. In a medium bowl, beat the remaining 4 tablespoons of butter with the cream cheese until smooth. Beat in the confectioners’ sugar, mint extract and remaining 1/2 teaspoon of vanilla extract. Spread 1 1/2 teaspoons of filling on the undecorated cookies and top with the decorated cookie.

Because some people are stupid to believe Trump.

Trade Deficit

Trump’s narrative is that “they rip us USA off”.

USA has trade SURPLUS with Saudi, UK, Australia & more. Yet they are hit with 10% BASELINE tariff. … USA is ripping them off.

attract overseas investment to USA.

Japan tried to help revive a dying US steel industry by acquiring a US steel factory. But protectionist USA stopped Japan’s acquisition.

Taiwan invested/moved the high-end section of TSMC to USA in Biden era. Trump 2.0 threatened to impose tariff on the entire world & asked Taiwan to move the entire TSMC to USA. Right away Taiwan invested an extra US$100 bn in USA (on top of the original $65 bn). Yet Taiwan was hit with 32% reciprocal tariff.

SK’s Samsung has also moved a section to USA. SK-Japanese investor Son Jeong-ui (孙正义) told Trump he will invest $100 bn in USA. But SK is hit with 25% reciprocal tariff & Japan 24%.

It is proof that attracting foreign investment is a LIE. LIE & LIE.

Germany, Japan & SKorea have car factories in USA. Yet they are hit with an additional 25% CAR tariff.

domestic

Tariff = tax increase on Americans. The crazily high tariff will cause sky-high inflation in USA. Yet some Americans support Trump.

Clinically Dead 6 Minutes; Man Visits Infinite Universe And Is Shown Our Purpose On Earth (NDE)

Mid-Life Crisis – a man speaks

What did it look like? Im still in it, hence my presence on Quora, similar as to many other +40 yr old (former) bankers.

The realization of being in one is a combination of your social network telling you, wtf are you doing? and you looking in the mirror asking the same question.

I remember wasting a few hours of my life in trying to train someone on simple mortgage modelling. I became irritated, annoyed, and my tone became overly cynical, my wife was looking at me;

I didn’t need to get upset, yet somehow my face was showing red.

I started to realize after a few years that one of the features of becoming a wrinkly old prune is that two things happen

  1. tolerance for bullshit lowers
  2. a new generation arrives with complete different sense of ethics, morals and what not

And I had kids (trying) to convince me of what they thought was right.

Ok, ok, I am getting older. Fine.

Am I depressed? Nah.

Unhappy? Perhaps? I don’t know what happiness is. Content?

I don’t know. All my life I have sort of done what I wanted to do. Because the world around me changed, what I used to do, how I used to live my life, I couldn’t do that anymore. That somehow upset me.

I am not suicidal, or an alcoholic or seeking escape in drugs. I run, work and well, quora has become that “place to vent” what used to be my workplace.. and as with everything in life, my phase on Quora will at some point also lower.

I am back where I was when I was 15.

Not a bad place to be.

I will see what comes on my path. The end of the world? More covid hoaxers? A new job? Starting an animal shelter? Who knows, all is fine. No rush. Look around you in this crazy world, headless chickens running around in a hamster wheel, when you get older, no need to do so.

Eventually life will bring something new on my path. Perhaps through Quora? Perhaps somewhere else? I don’t know. Irrelevant.

I am just a X’er trying to take the most out of every day. Currently for a walk with my dog and wife in the mountains of Poland.

Bless Me, Father, for I Have Sinned

Written in response to: Write a story with a character pouring out their emotions.

Michael Jefferson

Seventy-two-year-old Father Ronin McIntire shuffles alongside Killian Coyle, the director of White Birch Hospice Care. Balding and quietly spoken, with tranquil blue eyes peering out from behind round, steel-rimmed glasses, Ronin listens attentively to Killian.“After all these years, Ronin, you’re still putting in twice as many hours as the rest of the staff. You’ve been running on fumes ever since COVID. You used to look like a linebacker, but now you’re a string bean. You should take some time to rest and take care of yourself.”“The patients need me.”“You’ve undoubtedly heard the rumor that White Birch may not be here much longer because we’re running out of money. It’s true.”“All the more reason to help as many souls as possible.”***Weakened by heart disease, eighty-four-year-old Brandon Bohm manages to croak, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned… So much pain just to breathe…”Ronin leans over his bed. “Is there something I can do? Perhaps a special prayer?”

“…Just listen…”

***

Brandon grinds his teeth, stepping on the car’s accelerator.

“Promise me you’ll take your medication, Beth.”

“But it makes me sleepy.”

A tall, attractive, gray-eyed brunette with undeniable style and poise, Beth is the envy of all the wives whenever Brandon can coax her into attending one of Arlington Financial’s lavish parties.

“You need to pay attention to your mental health,” Brandon scolds. “I don’t want you wandering around the neighborhood naked again.”

“The neighbors didn’t mind. Some of them took pictures.”

“This isn’t a joke, Beth.”

Beth cups her head in her hands, sobbing. “You’re still punishing me for Albert. How many times do I have to say I’m sorry?”

“You left our son alone to toy with the mailman.”

“…We were only talking,” Beth says between tears.

“You were flirting while our son walked out the back door, fell in the pool, and drowned.”

“…And I’ve been paying for it ever since…”

“You smoke three packs a day. You don’t eat,” Brandon snaps. “You walk around the house talking and laughing to yourself, and you see things that aren’t there. You’ve had so many afflictions the psychiatrist can’t keep up with them. You’re making yourself sick so people will pity you, and you’ll get more attention. And you know what? That makes me sick.”

Brandon pulls the car into Rexall’s parking lot. He bounds out of the car but stops short, sniffing the air.

“I smell anti-freeze. Must have a leak. Why don’t you get your prescription while I check.”

“Aren’t you worried I’ll dance around naked in the aisles?”

“Just go.”

Brandon lifts the hood of the car, checking the engine.

A battered Chevy parks near the store’s front door. Leaving the car running, a jittery man with a big nose exchanges glances with Brandon before skulking inside.

A loud pop stops Brandon from playing Mr. Fix It.

The jittery man runs out of the door, dashing to his car. Smoking the wheels, he speeds off.

The store’s pharmacist races outside. Spotting Brandon, he yells, “Call 9-1-1! We’ve been robbed, and he shot a woman!”

***

Brandon struggles to speak, his voice a whisper. “…I’ve been living with the guilt for over forty years…”

“It’s difficult to care for a loved one with mental illness,” Ronin replies, patting Brandon’s hand.

“…Her doctor called after the funeral… He’d found a tumor in Beth’s x-rays. It had been pressing against her skull… He said the tumor and her guilt were why she acted so strangely…”

“It’s not your fault, my son.”

“…Yes, it is… I couldn’t take her behavior anymore. I hired that man to shoot Beth…”

***

Brandon Bohm’s confession hangs heavy over Ronin, who reminds himself that he’s duty-bound to keep it a secret.

Brandon’s secret dies with him two days later.

***

Lionel Liversay’s criminal past is well-known. He served twenty-five years for poisoning a co-worker. Now sixty-six, Lionel needs a heart transplant, but his reputation and his rare blood type have left him with little hope of getting one.

Ronin and Lionel eye each other guardedly as they sip their tea.

“This stuff takes nasty, but at least it’s warm,” Lionel complains.

Ronin makes the sign of the cross over Lionel.

“You should save your piety for someone who believes in that crap,” Lionel says.

“It’s never too late to give yourself to the Lord, my son.”

“Sure, if it’s Jack Lord, Jon Lord, or Majorie Lord.”

“Still defiant, still cynical, even at this stage,” Ronin comments. “Who hurt you, Lionel?”

“…Everyone…”

***

Logan Liversay musses his brother’s hair, punching him on the arm. Now that he’s sixteen and hanging out with the cool kids in school, Logan has stepped up his lifetime harassment of his twelve-year-old brother.

“What’s that you’re doin’, squirt? You playin’ mad scientist again? You know, all the kids at school think you’re a weirdo, a dork. You’re actin’ like Doctor Frankenstein is messin’ up my action with the girls, and I’m getting funny looks from the guys on the basketball team ‘cause of you. You need to straighten up and fly right.”

Lionel ignores his brother, mixing the chemicals he’s created with his chemistry set.

“You hear me, squirt? Maybe you’ll hear this!” Logan says, punching Lionel on the arm.

“OW!”

Lionel’s arm jerks backward, the solution in the test tube splashing onto Logan’s arm.

Logan shrieks, “You psycho! You burned me!”

Lionel turns his head in time to see his brother’s fist hit him.

When Logan is finished beating his brother, all that remains of Lionel’s chemistry set are bits of broken glass.

 

Lionel and Logan sit quietly at the dinner table as their parents scream at each other from one end of the house to the other. Her eyes blackened, their mother leaves, never to be seen again.

The rest of Luther Liversay’s dinner consists of the three tumblers of Vodka he drinks while belittling his sons and cursing his departed spouse.

“You’re a useless little ant, you know that, Lionel?” Luther grumbles. “You think all that scientific mumbo jumbo and those little test tubes are gonna help you make a living?”

“Maybe I could cure cancer someday. Maybe I could help you if you ever get sick.”

“Me? I’m healthy as a horse. It’s you who looks sickly.”

Luther wobbles as he rises from his chair.

“…I got a cure for you…”

Grabbing Lionel by his long hair, Luther pulls his head back, pouring a glass of vodka down his throat.

Lionel gags.

“Don’t you dare puke! Don’t waste good booze!”

Luther’s anger fails to subside, even after Lionel mixes him another drink.

Logan gobbles down his dinner so he won’t have to be in the same room as his father and brother. Later that evening, he doubles over, complaining about stomach cramps. Over the next few days, he becomes violently ill.

As the paramedics carry Logan to the ambulance, Lionel whispers, “Bye, squirt.”

Logan falls into a coma on his way to the hospital. He dies two days later.

***

Within a week, Luther develops the same agonizing stomach pains as his late son and is taken to the hospital.

Lionel can’t hide his joy as he watches his father try to contain his pain.

“What are you grinning at, you useless ant?”

“Maybe I can help you.”

Luther can only summon enough strength to ball up his fists.

“You did this to me. You and your test tubes and your potions.”

“Yep. Like I said, I could help you… But I won’t.”

Luther lingers for another day as his intestines dissolve.

Luther’s autopsy reveals traces of hydrofluoric acid. Lionel tells the doctors that Luther, a metal worker, had probably been exposed to it while on the job.

***

Lionel boomerangs through the child services system, returning to an orphanage whenever his latest family becomes too sick to care for him or one of his science experiments blows up his room.

After working in numerous pharmacies, Lionel works as a lab assistant at Medix Chemical Company. When Lionel offers to make coffee for his coworkers, they merely view it as a kind gesture.

***

Lionel tells Father McIntire he might have gone on to become a Nobel Prize winner if he hadn’t kept a diary.

Lionel made Roger Ratelle a cup of Earl Grey tea on a Monday morning. He found the taste so sour that he only took a mouthful before throwing it away. Telling their supervisor he felt ill, Ratelle left work. He began to hallucinate, crashed his car, and was eventually taken to hospital. He died on Tuesday.

A second co-worker, Mitzi LeForge, was admitted to the hospital on Wednesday with numb legs, breathing difficulties, and chest pains. Her skin was so tender she couldn’t bear the weight of the bed sheets, and all her hair fell out. But LeForge survived, and when the police questioned her, she mentioned feeling sick after drinking a cup of coffee Lionel had given her.

The police searched Lionel’s apartment and found twelve pages of notes describing how he’d poisoned Ratelle and LeForge. They also found four types of poison in his kitchen.

“But you only served time for Roger Ratelle’s murder,” Ronin notes.

Lionel sips his tea. “Yeah. Luckily, the police only found my notes on Ratelle and LeForge, not my diary. Still, I figure I did a year for everybody I poisoned.”

Lionel yawns. “Don’t you have a christening or catechism class? I’m tired. I need a nap.”

“I’ll leave you alone then. Make sure you finish your tea. It’ll be good for you.”

***

The next afternoon, Killian stops Ronin in the hallway. Killian, who keeps an unlit vape pen in his mouth to pacify his urge to smoke, earnestly bites down on its stem.

“Lionel Liversay passed last night. He had a convulsion. It wasn’t pretty or pleasant. Shame. I got word earlier today that they’d found a compatible subject for the heart transplant he needed. He would have recovered if he’d hung on for a few more hours.”

***

A few days later, Killian knocks on Ronin’s office door.

Killian’s vape pipe points at Ronin like a divining rod searching for water. “I know you’re busy, but can you talk to Homer today? He doesn’t have any family or friends. The doctors say he’s got dementia. Homer can’t remember his own life, so he makes things up. Yesterday, he told me he was there when President McKinley was shot.”

“He probably means Kennedy,” Ronin says.

“He said McKinley’s wife, Ida, had epilepsy, and one time, when she had a fit at dinner, McKinley threw a handkerchief over her face, hoping the guests wouldn’t notice. The way Homer tells a story makes it sound like he really was there.”

“I’d expect that from a man with no last name who signed himself in and paid in cash. He enjoys being a man of mystery.”

***

Homer is one of those lucky individuals who looks infinitely younger than he probably is. The nurses have a pool to guess his age, which they estimate is between fifty-five and eighty. He has the nimble body of a gymnast, an abundant shock of styled silver hair, and his face is wrinkle-free. His tender brown eyes develop a playful glint whenever he tells one of his outrageous stories.

“Are you in pain, Homer? Feeling foggy?”

“I felt far worse at Shiloh.”

“The Battle of Shiloh was in 1862, Homer.”

“That’s right. April sixth and seventh. Twenty-three thousand casualties… Some of the wounded soldiers gave off a greenish-blue glow. We called it ‘Angel’s Glow.’ The soldiers who had the glow recovered faster like they were blessed… Yeah, I saw a lot of suffering then. It was heartbreaking on the Titanic too…”

“Are you saying you were on the Titanic when it sank?”

“I was an electrician. I got out just before they shut the watertight doors to try and save the ship. I was lucky… Did you know there were seventeen newlywed couples on board? Seven new husbands and twelve new wives survived.”

“How do you know details about events that others don’t?” Ronin asks.

“I told you before, Father, I’m a time traveler.”

“And I’m Francis of Assisi. I bet you’re just a better internet surfer than the rest of us.”

Homer’s leprechaun charm dissolves. “It’s nearly time for me to go. I want to thank everyone for letting me rest here for a while… I hear White Birch is in financial trouble… I can help.”

“Unless you’ve got access to a goldmine, there’s not much you can do.”

“I’ve got four million dollars, and I’m willing to give it to you.”

Ronin tries to contain his laughter. “How and where did you get four million dollars?”

***

Homer’s story begins in Norwalk, Connecticut, in June 1975.

Homer greets Sanford DeNiro, the President of the Second National Bank, with a warm hello.

DeNiro looks up at the clock, his bushy eyebrows rising. “Right on time, as usual, Homer. You keep showing this kind of dedication and excellent work, and you’ll have my job!”

The bank’s other teller, short-haired, perky Crissy Coyne, smiles, muttering, “Suck up.”

“How’s Dan and the kids?” Homer asks.

“The same. We spend money faster than we make it. But I still love them.”

“Don’t worry. Dan’ll get a promotion. And your kids are destined for greatness.”

“From your mouth to God’s ears,” Crissy replies. “Hey, did you hear the latest? Wells Fargo is bringing four million dollars here this afternoon. Can you imagine getting your hands on that much cash?”

“Yes, I can,” Homer answers, whistling as he counts the money in his cash drawer.

“How do you do it, Homer? How are you able to stay so happy? We get paid next to nothing, yet you have beautiful clothes and a sports car and live in a gated community.”

“I told you. I’m a time traveler.”

Crissy rolls her eyes. “Just admit it, you’re either dealing drugs or gambling.”

“Okay, you got me. I’ve got a hot tip for you, Crissy. Keep this date in mind: February 11, 1990. Thirty-five to one odds. Bet on Buster Douglas against Mike Tyson.”

“That’s fifteen years from now. And who’s Mike Tyson?”

***

“The wife and I are spending the weekend in Banksville,” DeNiro says to Homer. “You don’t mind closing up, do you?”

“Of course not, sir.”

Smiling, Crissy mouths, “Suck up.”

***

Homer locks the front door of the bank, turning off the lights.

He goes to the vault. Stuffing six million dollars in three sacks, he walks out the back door, disappearing.

Homer spends the next fifty years enjoying a bachelor lifestyle, spending his free time sailing, traveling to exotic locales, whipping around in his sports car, and telling inquisitive acquaintances he made his fortune in junk bonds. He also occasionally robs other banks.

***

Ronin smiles broadly. “That’s a wonderful yarn, Homer.”

“It’s the truth… Go to my house…Check the Kennedy wall…”

***

Ronin arrives at Homer’s house as a tractor tears down the four-car garage.

He walks toward a well-kept house, slowed by a gruff voice yelling, “Hey! Where the hell do you think you’re goin’?”

Ronin turns to face Stash Diesel, the stocky demolition team foreman.

Noticing Ronin’s collar, he says, “Sorry, Father. I was hopin’ you were J.P. Morgan.”

“The financier? He died a hundred years ago.”

“His name’s on the deed,” Diesel replies.

“I’m here to look into something for Homer, the man who lived here. Maybe you can help me.”

“His neighbor said the owner was hardly ever here, that he spent most of the time travelin’,” Diesel says. “He said the owner forgot to pay his property taxes. Nobody can find him. Some real estate agent now owns the property, and he wants to build a condo here, so this is where I come in.”

Diesel follows Ronin inside.

The living room is a treasure trove of gold vases, hand-carved tables, luxurious Italian sofas, and mahogany chairs.

“I was expecting IKEA furniture,” Diesel comments. “Somebody should take this stuff out before we demo the house. I bet it’s worth a fortune.”

Ronin picks up an unusual art deco lamp shaped like a planet. Turning it over, he looks at the label.

“…World’s Fair, 1939… You’re right. Everything in here is a valuable antique.”

“Where’d you say the guy who lived here is?”

“I didn’t. He’s in hospice care. Dementia.”

“I’ll go halfsies with you on everything here, Father.”

Ronin sees the painting of John Kennedy on the far wall.

“Do you have a sledgehammer?”

***

Diesel wheezes heavily as he destroys another section of the wall.

“You sure about this, Father?”

“The nurses think Homer was telling another one of his tall tales, but he seemed serious when he spoke to me.”

Diesel grunts as the hammer punches another hole in the wall, revealing a small bookcase with three shelves.

A sack sits on each shelf.

Diesel grabs one of the sacks, opening it. Reaching inside, he pulls out a stack of hundred-dollar bills.

Diesel reads the lettering on the bag. “Second National Bank, Norwalk Connecticut.”

 

***

Killian sits back contentedly in his office chair, twirling the vape pipe around in his mouth. “I can’t thank you enough for finding such a generous donor, Ronin. I want to thank him. Are you sure he wants to remain anonymous?”

“It’s a condition of his donation.”

“Two million dollars will keep White Birch going for a long time.”

“I should make my rounds, starting with Homer.”

Killian throws the vape pen in the trash. “The nursing staff went to check on him this morning. He’s supposed to be forgetful, confused. But he managed to walk out of here. He’s vanished. The only thing he left behind was a gag gift.”

Killian pulls a sailor’s hat out of his desk drawer, showing it to Ronin.

The lettering on the cap reads: RMS Titanic.

It’s the little things.

Last night a foreign tourist in a hotel in the highlands (50 miles from a hospital, 40 miles from a Doctor) developed a urinary tract infection. She thought that’s what it was, but she seemed to be peeing a lot of blood. The NHS sent an ambulance 47 miles to check her out. They confirmed it was a UTI, and the woman asked if she could go to a chemist in Glasgow (where they were planning to visit the next day) and get antibiotics.

The paramedic on the ambulance phoned an specialist paramedic to ask his advice, this paramedic said she could go to a chemist in Glasgow, but since that wouldn’t be for twelve hours, he would drive up (24 miles at 1am) to dispense antibiotics to her immediately so she would be more comfortable as soon as possible. The course is three days so 12 hours is significant.

Cost £0, since she wasn’t from this country it really was £0.

Foreign tourist happy, condition will be cleared up quicker, cost to the NHS £0.38 for the antibiotics.

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If you don’t die, others you care about will. You can talk all you want about wrinkles, aches, loss of balance, etc., but those are things we can live with or fix. I will never get over losing my wife of 60 years. She was brilliant (IQ in the 140–160 range), caring, and unceasingly generous. She wasn’t bad-looking either. We had a wonderful partnership and even lived together 24/7 for the last 40 years. The truth of being alone without her is about as ugly as it can get.

Until you experience it yourself, you will continue to worry about losing hair or requiring a walker. Those are nothing… nothing! Without that love and someone to love back, I am an empty shell. I awake daily with ideas of things to accomplish, but deep inside, I know that every accomplishment of my life after our marriage was because of her, for her, and about her. The feeling is like climbing a ladder and reaching up for the next rung, but it isn’t there. You hand brushes empty space, and there’s no way to fill it.

That’s the ugly truth of getting older.

In my experience, it was just the opposite. I had been following the development of the Porsche Taycan for some time. When I heard that they were taking deposits for them, I went to the local dealership. I forgot to dress for the occasion. When I visited, I was wearing nice jeans and a button-down shirt (nicer than what I usually wear). I talked to a friendly salesman who took my information and ran my credit card for the deposit. Sounds good, right? About a month later I heard that the dealerships now had more information about the car. I visited again, only to find out that they had no record of me or my deposit. They never ran my card. They assumed I was wasting their time. I called my financial manager, who had purchased many cars from the dealership. He called the dealership. Within 10 minutes, while I was browsing the cars on the floor, the manager came out at a brisk clip and made sure that I was taken seriously. I have been driving my Taycan for almost 5 years now. I’m very happy with that car.

If you want to be taken seriously at a high-end dealership, get a fresh haircut, buy some new clothes, and show up dressed like one of their customers.

Sir Whiskerton and the Great Farmyard Escape Room:
A Tale of Trapped Animals, Incompetent Carpentry, and the Case of the Missing Fishbone Lockpick


Chapter 1: Hank’s Bright Idea

The trouble began when Handy Hank—the farm’s most enthusiastic and least skilled handyman—decided to “spruce up” the barn with his latest creation:

“HANK’S HEE-HAWIN’ ESCAPE ROOM!
GUARANTEED FUN OR YOUR HAY BACK!
(Disclaimer: No hay refunds. Ever.)”

The animals gathered, eyeing the rickety structure that looked less like an escape room and more like a fire hazard with dreams.

  • Y’all ready for some problem-solvin’?” Hank beamed, waving a hammer that was, concerningly, still smoking.
  • “This is clearly a death trap,” muttered Sir Whiskerton, eyeing a “puzzle” that was just Big Red the Dog’s chew toy nailed to a plank.

But before protests could mount, Catnip the Stray Cat slithered out of the shadows, his tail flicking with mischief.

  • Pfft. Escape rooms are for amateurs,” he sneered. “But since I’m clearly the smartest feline here, I’ll grace you with my genius.”

And with that, he slammed the door shut—and locked it from the outside.

  • First clue’s on the wall!” he cackled. “Try not to die of boredom before I get back!”

Silence.

Then—

  • “…Did that jerk just lock us in Hank’s deathtrap?” Porkchop the Pig said, voicing everyone’s thoughts.

Chapter 2: The Clues (Or Lack Thereof)

The “escape room” was a masterpiece of Hank’s trademark “good intentions, terrible execution”:

  1. A riddle scrawled in crayon: “What’s yellow, clucks, and holds the key?
    • Doris the Hen gasped. “Is this about ME?
    • Sir Whiskerton: “No, it’s about corn.
    • Doris: “OFFENSIVE.
  2. Bessie’s mood ring, duct-taped to a post, flashing “panic purple.”
    • Bessie: “Whoa, man. Deep.
    • Sir Whiskerton: “It’s broken.
  3. A “maze” made of Big Red’s shed fur (he’d eaten the original blueprint).
  4. A locked chest with a note: “The code is in the cluck.”
    • Doris: “THE CODE IS CLUCK? That’s speciesist!
    • Sir Whiskerton (already picking the lock with a fishbone): “It’s literally just the word ‘cluck.’

Chapter 3: The Chaos Unfolds

As the animals bickered, the room somehow got worse:

  • Ferdinand the Duck tried to sing the door open (opera-style), succeeding only in making Count Catula swoon.
  • Bessie attempted to “manifest freedom” via interpretive dance, knocking over Hank’snon-load-bearing” hay bale wall.
  • Big Red, having eaten the “do not eat” clue, now had indigestion and regrets.

Meanwhile, Catnip lounged outside, gleefully updating a “minutes since last meltdown” chalkboard.

  • Tsk. And they say I cause problems,” he smirked.

Chapter 4: The Breakout

Just as Doris was drafting a formal complaint about riddle-based discrimination, Sir Whiskerton made a grudging realization:

  • “…We have to work together.”

A horrified silence fell.

But necessity bred desperate alliances:

  1. Bessie’s mood ring (when thrown at a weak hinge) jammed the lock mechanism.
  2. Doris’s gossip (“Did you know Hank once built a canoe out of spaghetti?”) distracted Catnip long enough for—
  3. Big Red to barrel through the door, propelled by Porkchop’s well-timed sausage roll.

They tumbled into the sunlight, free at last—just as Hank’s “escape room” collapsed into a pile of splinters and questionable life choices.


Chapter 5: The Aftermath (And Moral Victory)

Catnip, caught mid-chalkboard gloat, froze.

  • Ahem. I meant for you to escape. It was a test of your… teamwork.”

Sir Whiskerton arched a brow.

  • “And the ‘smuggest feline’ award goes to…”

Moral: Teamwork beats smugness (and bad carpentry).

The End.

Key Jokes:

  • “The code is CLUCK? That’s offensive!”
  • Big Red eating critical clues.
  • Hank’s spaghetti canoe backstory.
  • Catnip’s “minutes since meltdown” chalkboard.

Starring: Handy Hank (disaster carpenter), Catnip (smug saboteur), Big Red (clue-eating menace).

P.S. Hank’s next project? A ferris wheel made of wheelbarrows. Pray for the farm. 🎡🚜

Mid-life crossroads…

To me, it means waking up one day to realizations that look like this:

How did I end up here?

I need to start over.

How is it that I have everything I want and I’m still not happy?

This can’t be all there is. Can it?

As a result of these realizations you begin to make changes, sometimes drastic, sometimes desperate, not always wise, in an effort to put yourself in a better position.

Because this is your life, and you only have one, and you are running out of time.

Which gives rise to another beautiful question.

If not now, when?

These efforts are usually met by aggressive disapproval, because no one likes change and the people who love you want you to remain the person they know.

This reinforces what you have been feeling: that no one else will live your life for you and that therefore there is only one authority on the matter: you.

So off you go, experimenting, exploring, stumbling.

Less comfortable for sure, but so much more alive.

This makes you re-evaluate your definition of happiness.

It’s not about stuff but about being awake.

What you want is for your life to mean something.

For me, a midlife crisis is coming into your own power.

It’s what I wish upon everyone.

Shortly before I came to Taiwan, in 1970, I forget what the crisis was, but a reporter asked an ROC government spokesman if Taiwan’s time was running out. His response, although I do not remember it word for word, was memorable: We will weather this just as we weather the typhoons that cross Taiwan every year.

I came shortly before the ROC was removed from the UN (yeah, I’m that old), and the whole world was expecting the ROC to be exterminated within a month or two. I lived in Saigon before I came; Taiwan’s situation was so precarious that people advised me that it would be safer to stay in Saigon, Taiwan was too dangerous.

But you know what? We’re still here. So I really don’t know. Taiwan weathers typhoon after typhoon, crisis after crisis.

Here’s what worries me: during the endless crises of the 1970s, people were capable of working hard to overcome difficulties, and used their minds to find a way forward. Look at the UN crisis, when all the world broke relations with the ROC. Rather than lie down and kick and scream, the government devised clever ways to maintain relations without formal diplomatic relations. This is why there are the Taiwan Trade Offices, the American Institute in Taiwan, the British Council, and the rest. The PRC economy had little to offer the world. Students from Taiwan were welcome in the best graduate schools in the US, and earned grades at the top of their classes.

Now, of course, times have changed, as they always do. The PRC economy is powerful, and their military is up to date. Since Taiwan’s Educational Reform of the 1990s, students’ ability has plummeted, and their main objective is to avoid the pressure schools and their parents give them.

Students’ ability: back around 1990, when I was teaching students TOEFL, GRE, and GMAT, if you mentioned the periodic table of elements, most of the class had it memorized in English, even the English majors and the business majors. Now if you mention it, most don’t really know what you’re talking about. 化學元素表?What’s that? Students then were motivated to get ahead, no matter what the obstacles. Most college students now are motivated to keep playing their video games until the bell rings.

Last year I was talking to four college students in an advanced English program. I mentioned ‘war,’ and not one of them knew this word. It seems that the more the administration pushes English education, the worse students’ ability gets.

Young people in Taiwan now are like cotton candy: they are nice to look at, really pleasant to deal with, but they melt away with the first drops of rain.

Another thing that worries me: too many people think that ‘because I say something, it must be so.’ They are frequently out of touch with reality. For example, look at Greater Taipei, with intense population density, and few trees outside of parks. But the Taipei municipal government says that Taipei is a forest city. Yes, there are beautiful forests in the mountains, and nice parks here and there, and we are certainly better of than Hong Kong, but calling Taipei a forest city is simply delusion.

People say that Taiwan is so important that Trump does not dare allow us any harm, and that Elon Musk is sure to do his best to protect Taiwan. Can you imagine that degree of self-delusion?

IMHO, the idea of a ‘country’ is outdated and belongs to the 20th century or before. But the DPP in particular is so obsessed with that idea that they lie down and kick and scream, but cannot limber up their minds to think with the flexibility shown during the diplomatic crises of the 1970s.

This is indicative of the way a lot of people think: they get ideas glued so tightly inside their heads that they cannot, will not imagine alternatives or think up ways to get around problems. Wishful thinking is the key! Seriously, the DPP’s anti-nuke stance has harmed the global environment and made energy production a big problem in Taiwan. President Tsai’s solution: 用愛發電:‘We will use love to generate electricity.’

tldr: in answer to your question: I’ve got my fingers crossed, but I don’t know.

Dead For 13 Minutes; Man Witnesses The Beginning Of Time And The Creation Of Reality (NDE)

Yes, I arrived at work at 6 am since I was early morning on call. But I couldn’t log into my computer. Locked out. Dang, what do I do??? So I called my supervisor who was evasive & said I needed to wait for their supervisor to arrive at work a couple of hours later. OK, this is friggin strange???

Then I got to looking at some of the desks around me, and they were empty of my co-workers personal effects & surprising clean. All right, I could figure out what was going on here. So I waited another couple of hours, read my newspaper & waited for the ax to fall.

Definitely a bolt from the blue.

Carolyn O’B

         “Come in, have some tea, we can chat while we wait. — I don’t get many human visitors. I assume you live near-by?”“Yes, I temporarily moved into the stone cottage about a mile down the road. Summer get-a-way. Just me and my five cats for now.” The woman fidgeted nervously as she sat by the dining table while Joel puttered in the kitchen. The only reason she was in the stranger’s home was because he said that he had seen her missing Twyla, and the cat would be coming for dinner shortly, along with the strays in the area. “Um, should you put some food outside —for the cats.”“The cats will scratch at the door when they arrive.” The kettle whistled and Joel prepared two mugs of tea. He took a bottle of ethyl acetate from the shelf above the counter and poured a little into one of the steaming cups. Shuffling over to the woman, he offered it to her. She sniffed, noting a slight smell of alcohol wafting from it.When Joel saw her hesitation, he quickly said, “I added a few drops of Chambord liquor,” You’ll love it.”She sipped, then gave an approving nod.“I’m a butterfly collector,” Joel said.“That must be interesting.”“Yes, it is a very intricate process. I’ve learned a lot about the practicality of every part of the butterfly. They chose me to help because I am a butterfly collector.”

“They?”  The woman slurped.

Joel prattled on. “Did you ever look at a piece of cut wood and see an abstract picture embedded in the grain?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Most people think the images are natural and coincidental. I however, understand that they are deliberate sketches; one of the ways extraterrestrials communicate with us. The fence that surrounds my house is full of their graffiti. They are asking me to help them learn the anatomy of life on this planet.

The woman fell unconscious before Joel finished speaking. He cradled her limp body in his arms and carried her to the bathroom while humming the tune to ‘DEM BONES.’ He laid her tenderly in the porcelain tub, then he strolled into the kitchen and drizzled the ethyl acetate onto a couple of cotton balls. Hurrying back to the bathroom, he crammed them into the woman’s nostrils.

~~~

         Two days earlier, Joel knelt just inside the fence that surrounded his house. He sang while cutting a rug of grass at the base of one of the pickets. “The leg bone’s connected to the knee bone, the knee bone’s connected to the thigh bone, the thigh bone’s connected to the hip bone, now shake dem skeleton bones.”

Mark approached the fence and stood on the opposite side startling Joel. “Need any help?”

“Found a dead bird on my doorstep this morning, probably a gift from one of the stray cats I feed. Just giving it a proper burial. I think I could handle it.” Joel gestured toward the paper bag beside him. “My house is in the center of a pet cemetery.”

“I’ll leave you to it then.” Mark trotted back to the road.

Joel commenced with using the garden spade to dig a grave. He placed the bird’s wrapped, dismembered carcass into the hole and filled the void with the extracted mound of dirt. After covering the site with the piece of turf, he wrestled onto his feet and stomped it flat.

He glided his rough fingertips over the outline of a bird on the wooden board in front of him. The curve of a head, the open beak, and the dark brown streak arcing downward from a solid, brown sphere that represented a heaving breast. Strategically placed fissures in the timber signified the feathers of a wing.

His head swiveled to the right and his eyes fixed on the coiled snake depicted on another picket in the fence. He stepped closer and lightly caressed the image; the loop that formed its long neck, the V that showed its forked tongue, the hypnotizing spiral, like an archery target, denoting its coiled body.

He moved along the enclosure. The next wooden slat was for Golden Guy, the fish. A figure in the shape of a torpedo appeared to be jumping from a ring below it. Undulating lines surrounded the figure like splashes of water. “My low-maintenance roommate,” he sighed.

He rounded the corner and walked past the gated entrance to the opposite side of the enclosure then paused. “Aw, Jerry the mouse. Your pointy nose, your round corkscrew ears, your delicate hooked feet.”

Resuming his trip down memory lane, Joel turned to his right and focused on the board next to the corner beam. He smirked as he lifted his arm to touch the darkened elongated oval that stretched like a rubber band. A series of arched contours spread outward, like sound waves bouncing off it. “You wanted a butterfly, you got a butterfly. No problem. Dedicated to everyone that laughed at me for collecting butterflies.”

He sauntered toward the back of the house and stopped. The board he examined contained the burnt silhouette of an inverted lightbulb. He ran a finger along each of the eight curved streaks the sprouted from it like rays of light. “Spider. Should be easy,” he mumbled.

He walked through the back gate and headed for the dilapidated shed at the edge of the woods. He breathed heavily, “Plenty of spiders in here.”

It didn’t take him long before he spied something crawling along the windowsill. Upon closer inspection, he was able to identify it as a wolf spider. He cupped the harmless creature in his hands and hustled back to the house.

Slamming the door with his foot, Joel hurried to the bedroom. He dropped the creature into an open jar he kept at the bottom of his closet. It was the “kill jar,” a jar any serious butterfly collector would have. He carried the jar to the kitchen and set it on the counter. He threw in a few cotton balls soaked with ethyl acetate and sealed the tomb. “There you go buddy.”

Once the spider became rigid, its legs curling inward, Joel removed it from the glass chamber with a long pair of forceps and began detaching the legs from the abdomen. He used a paring knife to separate the figure eight form and put the ten pieces in a small manila envelope.

The following morning, Joel buried the grim package containing the spider at the foot of its grave marker in the wooden fence. His gaze wandered to the run-down shack. Two almond-shaped knots in the wood were positioned approximately a foot apart and resembled human eyes. The natural darkened grains in the wood formed a lengthy and rather pronounced streak, like an aquiline nose between them. Inches under that streak, a horizontal split in the lumber signified parting lips according to Joel. It was like a portrait on a mausoleum.

~~~

          The extraterrestrials observed Joel via one of the many screen monitors lining the walls of the rocky cavern. They were counting on him to provide them with prototypes of the life on Earth.. Unfortunately, the first woman Joel targeted when they asked for a human specimen, wore a prosthesis and the puzzle would have been incomplete.

 

End

Let me say it as an Italian: it’s not even in the same province as the worst cuisine in the world.

Now, the UK is up there, in a fairly cool (although not cold-cold like, say, Finland), rainy, and pretty not sunny place of the earth. This kinda limits the range of fruits and vegetables it can produce, and also high quality wheat is out of the picture (aka, they don’t have the stunning range we have down here in the Mediterranean). Still, those pesky Britons have historically been able to turn a sow’s ear if not in a silk purse at least in a pair of very comfortable mocassins.

One maor advantage of having a cool but not extremely cold and pretty rainy climate is that grass grows fast and lushious, and if you have a lot of grass you may plan making beef, lamb, and milk (which can get turned into cheese). Good quality british meat is… Well, good quality British meat! Which can be turned into something like this:

A couple slices of meat (beef, lamb, chicken, or even pork), roasted potatoes that are crunchy and caramelised on the outside and fluffy inside, an array of seasonal vegetables, a couple Yorkshire puddings, and a good drizzle of gravy to finish it off. Sorry, mate, that can be a proper festive meal. Would I eat a Sunday roast dinner every Sunday? Maybe not, but I would certainly not complain about eating it a few times a year.

On a weekday I wound neither complain about a meal of bangers and mash: proper sausages, mashed potatoes, and again seasonal vegetables.

This is something else I could not complain about: a steak and ale pie, with tender meat, a rich ale based gravy, vegetables, herbs, and mushrooms, all encased in a flaky and crisp crust that serves as bread. YUM.

Another British advantage is that it’s an archipelago, aka it has lots of sea. And this translates into one of the cheapest but also tastiest option for a late night snack or a lunch almost on the go. White fish, battered in a beer batter that turns crisp and light in the frier and accompanied by real chips. I’ll personally skip the vinager (I know…), and appreciate a bit of mushy peas on the side.

In Milan we say “La bucca l’è minga stracca se la sa no de vacca”, the mouth isn’t tired unless it tastes like a cow. Cheesemaking in the UK is on the raise in terms of quality and quantity, and while their cheeses lack the variety we can make in Italy (I would say “and in France”, but I will not because they are our cousins). So, just give me this spread, some bread, and maybe a teaspoon of jam or honey, or also some fruit to reset my mouth while I switch from one to another.

Britons also have a sweet tooth, and some of the desserts you can find up there are really amazing. Like Scottish cranachan, which is just whisky-perfumed whipped cream, raspberries, and a little toasted oats for some texture: fresh, light and delicious.

While cranachan is fresh and light, other desserts can be so sweet that they instantly make your teeth hurt. Like a banofee pie, which is essentially a pie crust filled with toffee, then topped with ripe banana and whipped cream.

Sorry, I feel stuffed. I need a cup of tea to digest everything. I’ll also have one of those scones with a bit of clotted cream and a bit of jam.

Pumpkin Pie-Stuffed Cookies

Sugar cookies stuffed with pumpkin pie filling – a delicious combination!

Pumpkin Pie-Stuffed Cookies

Prep: 25 min | Bake: 16 to 18 min | Yield: 12 servings

Ingredients

  • 1/3 cup canned pumpkin pie mix (not plain pumpkin)
  • 2 tablespoons cream cheese, softened
  • 1 (16.5 ounce) roll Pillsbury™ refrigerated sugar cookie dough
  • 1/3 cup all-purpose flour
  • 1 tablespoon cinnamon-sugar

Instructions

  1. Heat oven to 350 degrees F.
  2. In small bowl, mix pumpkin pie mix and cream cheese; set aside.
  3. In large bowl, break up cookie dough. Stir or knead in flour until mixed well.
  4. Sprinkle work surface with additional flour. With rolling pin, roll dough 1/8 inch thick, adding flour as needed to prevent sticking.
  5. With a floured 2 1/2 inch round cutter, cut 24 dough rounds, rerolling scraps as needed.
  6. On a large ungreased cookie sheet, place 12 dough rounds about 2 inches apart.
  7. Spoon about 1 heaping teaspoon pumpkin mixture on center of each round.
  8. Top each with another dough round, crimping outer edges with fork to seal.
  9. Sprinkle tops of cookies with cinnamon-sugar mixture, gently spreading around with fingers if necessary.
  10. Bake for 16 to 18 minutes or until golden brown around edges.
  11. Cool on cookie sheet for 10 minutes; remove to cooling rack until completely cooled.

Notes

Store cookies in refrigerator because of the cream cheese in the pumpkin filling.

Leftover cookie dough can be baked into sugar cookies.

I recommend everyone read David Fishman’s posts, particularly when he reports on these national developments. Personally this one (within a thread of gold) jumped out at me.

I can see the reasoning for a green hydrogen approach. If we are trying to decarbonize shipping, this is one of those cases where highly volatile and inefficient green hydrogen can make sense. It is not like mariners are strangers to highly pressurized, dangerous power plants; supercritical steam is practically a time-honored tradition now. Likewise, we do not expect massive container ships to regularly collide in such catastrophic manners as to breach fuel compartments; further if it does happen, at least the damage is on the ocean where it can be minimized. I do not mind this narrow case for green hydrogen. If in fact we as a united mankind care about decarbonizing as aggressively as reason permits, then these explorations matter (and so does their funding).

In the parlance of green policies here in the US, we have been largely beholden to policies that politicians can wave around as the next miracle. At the end of the day, what we really need to do is accept that all solutions are good so long as they tackle existing problems effectively and efficiently enough. Unfortunately, we are stuck in this meaningless fight where people invested in certain solutions oppose others invested in other solutions. Is it any wonder that a bunch of populists drunk on power can castigate the entire field as being worthless, calling for not only zeroing of funding, but outright bans on any mention of any solutions? The democratic process here in the US seems to promote the very anti-intellectualism that experts cringe at, by pitting experts against each other via political sloganeering.

Meanwhile, centralized planning continues unabated in China. In many cases it stumbles, but many of those become happy coincidences. Take for example:

I came for the CN drama reviews. I stayed for… the central planning insider stories of Chongqing???

I have said this time and again— the best system of the modern age is a system that can draw on the advantages of different types of ideology and discard their weaknesses without suffering from critical internal cohesion issues. Living in contradiction is what we must do; hell, that is likely what most of our historical high points across humanity were good at. The US system currently is suffering because the contradictions are too much, ergo ideological purity is the go-to solution. The Chinese system? I see plenty of leftists nodding very vigorously that China is an exemplary of dialectical materialism, all the while rightists claim it is the pinnacle of modern fascism, liberals claim all of its riches are due to Dengist embrace of capitalism, and nationalists believe it is the rejuvenation of the Chinese civilization.

Let us all live in contradiction. The principle is deeply Daoist, but quite frankly Westerners should be comfy with it too. After all:

Maybe the West should be comfier with the inherent contradiction that its peak liberalizing, civilizational thinking is actually in part just another frontier of Chinese philosophy…

Art is subjective (and sometimes ovoid)

This is an extremely stupid act for Japan, which not only provides China with an excuse, but also gives China the initiative for nothing.

  • In the future, if China feels that the Japan–China Joint Communiqué is favorable to China, it can suppress Japan on a moral level, accusing Japan of going back on its word and breaking its promise.
  • In the future, if China feels that the Japan-China Joint Communiqué has become a hindrance to China’s development, then it can teach Japan a lesson with dignity, saying that it was Japan that tore up the Japan-China Joint Communiqué and that China has reason and evidence to teach Japan a lesson.

The Japan–China Joint Communiqué is the basis of the Treaty of Peace and Friendship between Japan and China.

If there is no Japan–China Joint Communiqué, the Treaty of Peace and Friendship between Japan and China will also be invalid. China will have the right to demand compensation from Japan for China’s war losses during WWII and to demand that Japan return the ownership of the Ryukyu Islands. This is the result that most Chinese have been looking forward to.


But that’s not what the Japanese Foreign Minister said during his meeting with Chinese Foreign Minister Wang Yi yesterday. In a meeting with Foreign Minister Wang Yi, the Japanese Foreign Minister said:

We attach importance to abiding by the four political documents between Japan and China, and there is no change in our position of adhering to the Japan–China Joint Communiqué of 1972 on the issue of Taiwan.

In the meeting, the Japanese Foreign Minister was the one who took the initiative to pull out a chair for Chinese Foreign Minister Wang Yi and asked him to sit down first, and he put on a groveling face to Foreign Minister Wang Yi.

Therefore, the remarks claiming that the Japan–China Joint Communiqué is not legally binding are just news that Japanese government supplies to its domestic people for their amusement, with the purpose of deliberately pleasing its own nationals.

Japan doesn’t even dare to take back the Diaoyu Islands (Senkaku Islands), but does it dare to meddle in China’s Taiwan issue? 🤣

When Chinese reconnaissance planes approached the Japanese coastline for reconnaissance, the Japanese Air Self-Defense Force did not dare to take off to expel them at all, because Chinese reconnaissance planes flew over Japan too often, and Japan’s number of planes and their maintenance capacity were insufficient to cope with frequent reconnaissance on such a large scale.

But the Japanese people do not know these facts.

Nowadays, the western media, including Japan and South Korea, which are the puppet countries of the US, don’t consider the actual confrontation with China as the first priority, but just make up a story in the media – “they have won over China” to paralyze the people.

That is why Japan, South Korea and Taiwan are still bragging in the media about their great victories and the public is still very optimistic about confronting China. And Japanese and South Korean politicians are deliberately pandering to this kind of arrogance and optimism for the sake of their own votes.

But the Japanese and Korean politicians know very well that they are now lining up to lick China’s ass.

This set up is just a continuation of vote politics.


Japan’s GDP last year was even lower than it was in 1994, and even India is on the verge of overtaking Japan.

Japan is likely to be the first Asian country to fall from developed to developing status, followed by South Korea.


For China nowadays, the Japan–China Joint Communiqué itself is not important, national strength is everything, and only when China has national strength will any country abide by the content of the treaty signed with China.

Baker’s Divine Truffle Brownies

7cb4521e89c2bd626aedb8017e7be24d
7cb4521e89c2bd626aedb8017e7be24d

Yield: 16 brownies

Ingredients

  • 1 (8 ounce) package semisweet or 1 (6 ounce) package bittersweet baking chocolate squares
  • 1/4 cup butter
  • 3/4 cup granulated sugar
  • 3 eggs
  • 1 cup all-purpose flour
  • 2/3 cup heavy or whipping cream

Instructions

  1. Heat oven to 350 degrees F (325 degrees F for glass dish). Line an 8 inch baking dish with foil extending over edges to form handle. Grease foil.
  2. In a medium microwave-safe bowl, cook 2 squares of the chocolate and the butter on HIGH until butter is melted (about 1 1/2 minutes). Stir until chocolate is melted.
  3. Stir in 1/2 cup of the sugar. Stir in 1 egg until well blended.
  4. Stir in flour.
  5. Spread batter in pan.
  6. Cook remaining chocolate (6 squares if using semisweet, 4 squares if using bittersweet) and cream in microwave-safe bowl on HIGH for 1 1/2 minutes; stir until chocolate is melted.
  7. Beat remaining 1/4 cup sugar and the remaining 2 eggs in a small bowl with electric mixer on high speed 1 minutes until thick and lemon yellow-colored; beat in chocolate/cream mixture. Pour over batter in pan.
  8. Bake for 35 minutes to 40 minutes or until the truffle topping is set and edges begin to pull away from sides of pan.
  9. Cool in pan.
  10. Run knife around edge of pan to loosen brownies from sides. Lift from pan using foil as handles.
  11. Cut into 16 fudgy brownies.

In year 2000, the group that is responsible for the JPEG file format, called the JPEG group, decided to come up with a new version of the JPEG format. It was called JPEG2000. It had some really cool ideas. One of them was that it supported streaming of images. One JP2 image contained multiple resolutions of the same image, and the lower resolutions were kept upfront. So, when you are downloading the image, you will get a lower resolution immediately. The advantage was that on low speed connections, the browser could show a low-res image pretty quickly. Also, devices that were low-res could simply stop downloading the image when they had the resolution they wanted

At the time, JPEG2000 was hoping that the JP2 standard would make its way into browsers (spoiler: it still hasn’t). We wanted to use it to build mapping applications. We had encoded aerial photos into the JP2 format, and we had a server that returned SVG maps. Since there was no browser support, I built an ActiveX control that would stream the JP2 image and overlay it with the SVG maps. It was very cool. Our resolution was like 10 times better than Google Maps (at the time).

I was using a library called Kakadu library. It was an open-source library that could stream and parse JP2 images. Kakadu performed really really well. It was fast! Except that once in a while it would get stuck. Randomly. No pattern. So, they pulled me in and I suspected a problem that arises because of thread contention. So, I got to debugging it. At the time, I was young, and I understood multi-threading pretty well, but hadn’t really fixed a thread-contention problem. I was excited.

So, I dug into their code and started debugging it. The first thing I figured is when I debug, the problem goes away. Crap! Essentially, the debugger itself acts as a synchronization mechanism, and it changes the timing of how the instructions in the thread execute.

So, I started adding logs. The next thing I figured out is that when I add logs, the problem goes away! Crap again! Again, since the logging goes to the file system, the file system acts as a synchronization mechanism and throws the timing off.

So, I can’t debug, and I can’t log. It’s a fairly complicated piece of engineering, that I haven’t written. So, before I solve the real problem, I need to figure out how to troubleshoot in a multi-threaded environment. Crap!

So, I started thinking that it’s the synchronization by things outside the code that throws the timing off, right? So, as long as I keep the code inside of the external synchronization very tight, I might prevent the timing from going off. So, I started minimizing my log statements. Eventually, I figured out that if I put one character logs, I am fine. And I can’t put too many 1-character logs.

So, the first thing I had to figure out was if the code takes a path that is different when the problem occurs versus when the problem doesn’t occur. Remember, I could put only single character logs, and not too many of them. So, I started reading through the code without trying to understand it. Whenever I reached a decision point, I would put 2 logs in the 2 branches. One branch logged “\”, the other branch logged “/”. When I saw a loop, I logged “|” inside the loops. When I would see the logs, I would see the log as

  • \|||//|||||||||\/\/\\\

I would run the app and note down these strings of characters when the code ran fine, then note down the characters when it didn’t. Next I compared the strings of characters to find the deviation. Finally, I would trace back through the code to find the spot at which the log message deviated.

Since I couldn’t put too many logs, I had to be judicious. Luckily, the Kakadu code was structured very very nicely. I want to kiss the Kakadu developers (even though they caused the bug). All their code was layered very nicely. They had high-level functions that called lower-level functions, that called even-lower-level functions. So, I picked the topmost layer and put my magic single-character logs there. When I found the deviation, I would understand the code to figure out why the deviation happened. Usually, it was because a lower-level routine behaved differently. So, I had to remove all my logs, and then add similar logs in a lower-level routine. I did this layer by layer till I found the bug.

This entire process took about three weeks. It was a one character fix. There was a busy-wait loop in the rendering thread that waited for data to be loaded by a producer thread. It checked a counter using < instead of <=. Usually, the counter would go from counter < expected to counter > expected, and it would work fine. In the rare condition that the = condition was satisfied, the rendering thread would prematurely parse the data, get an exception and cleanly exit. This would stop all rendering.

Three weeks, one character. I should get a T-shirt that says that.

Fixing this bug really showed me the value of building your code in layers.

Is DOGE ACTUALLY Popular?

This is one I remember.

As a younger brother of two older twin sisters, I remember many incidents. But this one came to my mind first. Tracy was later telling us at the dinner table dad’s reaction of what he saw. Mom already knew about it. Tracy wanted to surprise dad.

She asked dad to come with her and help her pick up something from a store. Dad obligingly jumped into her car and they were off. Downtown they went. Suddenly Tracy pulled over and parked at the curb. She looked at dad with a smile. Dad asked what was up.

Tracy was 17 here and had been modelling since she was fifteen. She pointed forward. Dad looked and his eyes grew wide.

In front of them on a building was a huge 30 by 15 foot billboard with Tracy on it wearing a T shirt and a pair of jeans, her long blonde hair flowing in the wind.

The words on the billboard stated, ‘SAINT LAURENT JEANS WILL TURN HEADS EVERY TIME!’

It was Tracy’s first billboard. She noticed dad’s eyes were full of tears.

“Daddy! Are you crying?” she asked patting his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“Happy tears honey,” he said, “I am so proud of you.”

To put a face to the story, Tracy at age 18.

One Sip Trip

Written in response to: Set your story in a café, garden, or restaurant.

Patrick Druid

One Sip Trip.I stepped off the bus in the middle of town, and got totally soaked by the rain. I tried to shelter myself with the magazine I was reading, but it didn’t help much, so I rushed across the busy, 5 line street to find an awning.The cars honked at me as I sprinted.”Yeah, I know you don’t like me!, I said to them.  I doubt that they could here me in this downpour and I really didn’t care if they did.I had a really hard day at the office today as they say. The boss pulled a bunch of us into a conference and started the usual drone about “making the numbers” and that we would be all out of job, if we didn’t make the numbers.

I could feel all of the eyes of the room settling on me as if I had something to do with it. Somebody had to be blamed, I guess and I was it….again! I could never catch a break no matter how hard I tried. The rain really topped of my bad day like the cherry on a banana split. Perfect.

I shook my head as I continued to shiver from the rain under the awning of a cafe.

“Hey, why don’t you come on in and get warm?” , a voice said.

I turned around and saw a blonde woman in her thirties or so, giving me a smile that could light up a room, and her voice had all the home style charm of a freshly baked cookie.

I followed her into her cafe. As soon as I walked through the door, I felt the rush of warm air and a smell of cinnamon. I saw two comfortable chairs and small table in front of a fireplace, so I made a beeline for the closest one and sat down.  The chair felt so good, it almost felt like it hugged me.

I looked around for a little bit and then I looked back towards the counter where the barista was making a hot drink. I suddenly felt embarrassed that I had sat down on this chair while still being wet and my face fell

“I’m so sorry. I got this chair all wet!”

Again, she smiled at me. “Don’t you worry about it, hun! You’re all cold and wet and you need something warm in you. Here’s a cuppa my finest for ya on the house!”

She placed the cup and saucer on the little side table. I saw the steam rising from the hot reddish liquid inside. As much as I tried to resist the urge to wait to take a sip, I felt strangely drawn to this drink as the scent of apples filled my head.

“Ya had a hard day, huh?”

“Yeah,” I said to her, then I looked up. “How can you tell?”

She laughed. “I’m psychic!”

“Pfft!”

She laughed again..”okay I’m not psychic. You came in wet and you were looking down at the ground most of the time.”.

“It’s just body language, that’s all. Nuthin special”

I nodded my head and took a sip of the drink and it reminded me of a mincemeat pie on Christmas night. I closed my eyes for a bit and just let gravity take me.

“It’s good, huh?”, she said to me softly almost in a barely perceptible whisper. “I made it just for you, hun!”

“Mmmmmmm..hmmmmm” I managed to say before the ambience finally lulled me into a much needed sleep. “Perhaps a few minutes shut eye here won’t hurt”, I said as I reached for the saucer and the cup.

Clouds

I saw clouds

I was sitting in a dusty field overlooking the Grand Canyon. It was dusk and the last rays were disappearing over the horizon. The air was crisp and dry.

I sighed and yawned deeply as I took in the view. I remember thinking that I should take a little trip here one day.

“Beautiful isn’t it?”

“Yeah”, I said then frowned. Who was talking to me? I looked around and I didn’t see anyone.

“Wait , wait wait. Ssshh.” the female voice intoned softly. “It’s totally okay. ”

I continued to look around a bit but saw no one. “Who are you? Where are you?”

“Sorry to bother you but I have news and you’re not going to like it.”

I looked around again and shook my head. “You have news? I don’t even know who you are!”

The voice sighed for a moment and spoke again more quietly. “Who I am isn’t important. I am here to rescue you”

“What?!?”

“Let’s take a good look at your situation and you’ll see why you need me. For starters, you work in the sales department and your department is not meeting the designated numbers, right?”

I slowly nodded.

“Well most corporations by this time have discovered ways to sort of “trim” the ranks without causing too much fuss and attention.”

“Okay….” I said wondering where this was going.

“So..when the corporation decides to find a ‘sacrificial lamb’they make contact with her and set up a ‘meeting’. This way the avoid the termination papers, severance pay, etc

“Her?”

“That barista in the cafe.”

I shook my head at this. “Okay, so they send me to a barista or they send her to me. Weird but so what?” I shrugged my shoulders, or at least I thought I did. I suddenly felt a little cramped.

“Did you notice her name?”

“I think it was Latte or something”

“Starting to feel a little cramped? That means she is got you and we don’t have much time to get you out.”

“What? Get me out of what?”

“Do you trust us?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“What we’re about to do has never been tried before. We are going to try matter transference to get you out of there before your whole consciousness disappears but we have to wait until she has completely wrapped you for storage.”

My eyes went wide……

The voice continued its explanation. “ That tea gave you has a strong sedative and a narcotic, giving you that euphoria you felt.

“Then she wraps you up for safe keeping for awhile, to keep you fresh. Unfortunately, this process does cause the victim to suffocate… slowly.”

“Mmmmmmpppphhghhhhh!”

“Ooooh . Hang on…you’re almost totally wrapped up. When she leaves, we’ll transport your body out.”

I tried to speak but found that could barely get a sound out. I suddenly felt vibrations below me as if I was on a hammock or a rope bridge or.…….a web?

“Mmmmmmpppphhghhhhh!Mmmmmmpppphhghhhhh!!”

Then, I remembered glancing at the sign before I even walked in but it just didn’t register in my mind until now. It read

Lata’s Parlor. Latrodectus. The black widow spider.

“Okay”, the voice said again softly. “We’re almost ready to transport now. You might feel a tingling sensation for a moment.”

I screamed and screamed and screamed the muffled screams of a condemned man about to be taken to his doom. Then I did feel a slight tingling sensation across my chest. Could I be saved?

************

Epilogue

Morning shined down on the town as the businesses opened up for the day. The barista of Lata’s Parlor was sitting at an outside tables, reading a newspaper and sipping a cup of tea. She sighed. “Just the right blend of despair and hope!”

The sign outside read

“Come into Lata’s Parlor! I have just what you need!”

Trump fought a four-year trade war with China during his last term and didn’t gain any advantage at all. It is no longer a trade war between China and the United States, but a declaration of war by the United States against the world.

Trump imposed a 46% tariff on Vietnamese products, which is higher than the tariff on Chinese products.

Vietnam regrets US’s decision to impose 46% tariffs – VnExpress International
Vietnam has expressed regret over the U.S.'s decision to impose retaliatory tariffs and will continue to coordinate with the U.S. to find solutions that ensure the stable development of bilateral economic relations.

China retaliated in kind, imposing a 34% retaliatory tariff on American products, while the Vietnamese government reduced the US tariff on Vietnamese exports to 0%.

China imposes a 34% tariff on imports of all U.S. products starting April 10
China will impose a 34% tariff on imports of all U.S. products beginning April 10, part of a flurry of retaliatory measures following U.S.
Việt Nam willing to slash tariffs on US goods to 0%: Top leader
General Secretary Tô Lâm stressed Việt Nam’s willingness to engage with the US to lower import tariffs on US goods to zero

China and the United States are both giants. Vietnam’s economy is not as large as China’s, so it is impossible for it to directly confront the United States like China.

As a small economy, Vietnam does not have the capital to compete with the United States. It can only show goodwill to Trump and see if Trump can suddenly show mercy and let Vietnam go. Otherwise, Vietnam will fall into the predicament of business closures, mass unemployment, rising prices, and declining people’s livelihood.

But I think it is very unlikely that Trump will let Vietnam go, because the US government is too short of money. If the deficit continues like this, the country will go bankrupt.

I would really like to know what gave you this idea.

The Cybertruck has none of the things a modern plow truck needs.

A plow truck built on a Ford or a Chevy starts off with a body on frame. The plow mounts attach to the frame. There is also a Snow Plow Prep Package. This is a factory or a dealer option, and it typically includes front end upgrades, like heavier duty suspension, and sometimes frame reinforcement, and extra power hookups for plow and plow lights. There are upfitters guides on how to get extra equipment installed safely.

There is no such package for the Cybertruck. It doesn’t even have a frame. The entire front is an aluminum “gigacasting”.

I’m not even sure there is a place to mount a plow on that. Using tow hook mounts is generally a bad idea, they are not designed to take compression loads.

There is no manual on plow mounting from Tesla that I have ever heard of. On the other hand, we know that this is what happens with the big aluminum casting in the rear:

Tesla says this is due to people exceeding vertical load rating, which is something ridiculously small, like 160 pounds. A common snow plow weighs 400–600 pounds. And that’s just transporting it, before you start pushing snow. Since the front casting isn’t all that different, it sure doesn’t seem like it would hold up.

All that aside, the Cybertruck would be one of the most annoying vehicles ever to use for snow plowing. And the reason for that is what passes for the gear selector on it.

One of the things that happens when you plow is that you have to constantly back up and go forward. On a normal truck, this is done with a lever on the console or on the column, and you can just keep your hand on it.

On the Cybertruck, you have either the option on the big tablet on the dash, or this thing overhead

Can you imagine sitting there with your arm raised while you plow?

Or with your hand outstretched and hovering over the screen?

All this is before we get to what plowing use would do to the drive motors and battery. I really have no idea how well they would stand up to that sort of use, but the things mentioned above are enough to put the Cybertruck on the list of “must not get” vehicles for plowing.

This is really surprisingly amazing. It takes you all to another time, and another place. It really is a time machine.

ksnip 20250325 115630
ksnip 20250325 115630

150 years ago, a doctor walked into a room.

On the table in front of him was a patient lying down.

Around the room, with chairs watching him, was a crowd of skeptical doctors.

The doctor walked forward and signaled to the patient on the table. His assistant came forward with a container; he then proceeded to place a tube in the patient’s mouth.

He then had the patient inhale while his assistant passed water into his mouth.

Then, under the gaze of the doctors who continued to look at him with skepticism, he stepped forward, knife in hand.

He held the knife against the patient’s skin. Then he pressed down and slid the blade through, beginning his incision.

And all the doctors’ eyes opened wide.

Before this moment – this would have been the beginning of high-pitched screams in agony.

And now?

Silence.

The observing doctors were amazed.

For the first time, they could hear only the movement and noises of the surgical team. Their footsteps, their instruments clanking together. The cuts. The application of sutures. The doctor whispering orders to his assistant.

For patients, the threat of surgery without anesthesia was omnipresent and universally feared. Many had to face this outcome if they wished to extend their lives.

William T. Morton, using ether, was the first doctor to introduce surgery with anesthesia. I recognize that most people aren’t familiar with him, but we greatly appreciate his contribution.

In the early days of Craigslist, I was trying to get my side business of selling stringed instruments online going. I decided a good way would be to advertise on Craigslist in every state since they didn’t charge me for each sale the way Ebay did. I didn’t know at the time that you weren’t supposed to advertise/sell things outside of the state you live in on Craigslist (I guess that’s a rule, I never really looked into it further). One day I was exchanging emails with a guy in the Mid West somewhere about a ukulele he was interested in. We get down to the details and I give him the instructions on how to make payment, then told him I would ship to him immediately. He realizes I’m not in his state and asks me why the f**k I’m advertising in his home state if I don’t live there. He then cuts off all communication and my listing was cancelled. I can only imagine he complained to Craigslist and had it taken down. This left me livid at his rudeness and actions. I mean, since we’d been conversing amicably prior, he could’ve nicely said something like, “Hey, I don’t know if you’re aware but you’re not supposed to advertise on CL from another state.”

He, unfortunately, used an email address that listed the company’s name he worked for and its location. This was several years ago and let me just say I’m not proud of my actions now. I looked up a bunch of questionable sex publications and had a pretty good number of them mail samples to his company, addressed to his attention. I’m not sure how that actually played out but I did feel badly about it shortly after. And, if you believe in karma or the like, I did kind of experience a string of not-so-good events soon after that.

There are thousands and thousands. They don’t go to the doctor because they can’t afford it, and then when their condition gets bad enough they go to the county general hospital emergency room, which is obliged to treat them whether they can pay or not (but still sends them a bill). It patches them up temporarily… until next time. The cycle repeats, with inadequate long-term care until they die. Because their conditions are not caught early, and they don’t get preventive care, they die unnecessarily, or sooner than they should.

Diabetes is a good example. You don’t have any symptoms until it starts killing off your kidneys and your extremities. Then you get renal failure and skin ulcers on your feet that never heal because they’re not getting enough blood flow. It could have been treated early with pills, not even insulin, and changes to diet, if it were caught. But by that time it’s too late.

Having people get patched up in emergency rooms again and again is expensive and unnecessary. It would be cheaper to give everyone universal health care so their conditions are caught early. States with universal health care are really into preventive medicine because it saves money.

Far from being “rationed” as its opponents claim, my UK doctors are always encouraging me to come in if I need it. They know that it’s cheaper in the long run.

Sir Whiskerton and the Farm’s First Poetry Slam:  A Tale of Beatnik Verses, Egg-Laying Dramatics, and the Birth of Poultry Noir


Chapter 1: The Beatnik’s Dream

The flyers appeared overnight, plastered on every barn door, fencepost, and (regrettably) Bessie the Tie-Dye Cow’s forehead:

“JAZZPURR’S 1st ANNUAL BARN-YARD POETRY SLAM!
Featuring: Free Verse! Radical Vibes! Snaps Not Claps!
BYOB (Bring Your Own Beets).”

Sir Whiskerton peeled one off his favorite sunbeam with a claw.

  • “This is a terrible idea,” he announced to Ditto the Kitten, who was busy chewing on a loose corner of the poster.
  • “Terrible! Terrible!” Ditto echoed, spraying paper scraps.

But Jazzpurr the Beatnik Cat was unstoppable. With his black beret tilted at a jaunty angle and a bongo drum strapped to his back, he’d already converted the chicken coop into a “soulful artistic space” by draping it with Bessie’s old tie-dye scarves.

  • “Like, dig the energy, man,” Jazzpurr purred, adjusting a sign that read “NO HAIKU ZONE”. “The farm’s finally gonna express its truth.”
  • “Its truth,” Sir Whiskerton muttered, “is that Doris the Hen once had a nervous breakdown over square hay bales.”

Chapter 2: The Contestants Gather (For Better or Worse)

By sundown, the “stage” (a repurposed feed trough) was surrounded by:

  1. Ferdinand the Duck, clutching a scroll titled “Ode to My Reflection”.
  2. Bessie, who’d prepared a 15-minute spoken-word piece called “Moo-nlight Sonata (But with More Kale)”.
  3. Elvis the Rooster, who’d misunderstood the assignment and brought a guitar.
  4. Ratso the Rat, lurking in the shadows with a suspiciously dramatic trench coat.

And, of course, Sir Whiskerton, who attended solely to prevent property damage.

Jazzpurr kicked things off with a finger-snap ripple.

  • “Welcome, cats and chicks, to the realest night of your lives,” he intoned. “First up: Bessie.”

Chapter 3: The Performances (Or Lack Thereof)

Bessie’s poem was… experimental.

  • “Like, man… what even is grass?” she began, swaying. “Is it green? Is it life? Or just, like… salad waiting to happen?”
  • “Right on, man,” Jazzpurr murmured, snapping.
  • “SALAD!” Ditto echoed.

Next, Ferdinand delivered an opera-quack rendition of his poem, which technically violated the “no singing” rule, but Jazzpurr allowed it because “art knows no bounds, man.”

Then—Ratso slithered onto the stage.

A single spotlight (held by Count Catula, who insisted on “proper ambiance”) illuminated his whiskered snout as he lit a match off his own teeth.

  • “It was a dark and stormy night…” he growled, “and the cheese… was gone.”

The crowd gasped.

  • “I didn’t take it, see,” Ratso continued, pacing. “But the dame with the feathers… she framed me.”
  • “Ooooh,” whispered Doris, enthralled.
  • “This isn’t poetry!” Sir Whiskerton hissed. “This is film noir propaganda!”
  • “Art is subjective, man,” Jazzpurr sighed, snapping.

Chapter 4: Elvis’s Grand (Egg-Stravaganza) Finale

Elvis the Rooster strutted onto the stage, his pompadour glistening under the moonlight.

  • “Y’all ain’t ready,” he clucked, strapping on his guitar. “This here’s The Ballad of the King.”

What followed was three minutes of:

  1. Bluesy clucking.
  2. A shocking hip thrust.
  3. And then—

THUNK.

An egg rolled onto the stage.

Silence.

  • “Uh,” said Elvis, staring at it. “That ain’t part of the act.”

The crowd erupted.

  • “A metaphor for fragility!” cried Bessie.
  • “A symbol of rebirth!” argued Jazzpurr.
  • “A snack,” muttered Porkchop, licking his lips.

Ratso, seizing the moment, grabbed the egg and held it aloft.

  • “The yolk’s on you, see?” he rasped. “Life’s a hard-boiled mystery… and we’re all just scrambled.”

The crowd went wild.


Chapter 5: The Judging (And Travesty of Justice)

In a controversial decision, the egg won “Most Dramatic Performance.”

  • “This is ridiculous,” Sir Whiskerton spat. “It’s an egg.”
  • “But man, what an egg,” Jazzpurr countered, handing the trophy (a gilded turnip) to Elvis, who immediately sat on it.

Ratso was awarded “Best Noir Ambiance” for “making a salad ingredient seem existential.”

And Bessie received “Most Likely to Start a Cult” for her grass manifesto.

As the night wound down, Sir Whiskerton found himself cornered by Count Catula.

  • “Admit it,” the vampire cat purred. “You enjoyed the drama.”
  • “I enjoy order,” Sir Whiskerton sniffed. “Not… whatever that was.”

But as he walked away, he might have accidentally snapped along to Jazzpurr’s freestyle bongo outro.

(No witnesses could confirm this.)


Epilogue: The Moral of the Story

The next morning, the farm returned to normal—except for:

  1. Elvis, who’d laid another egg out of sheer habit.
  2. Ratso, now writing a screenplay about “The Egg Who Knew Too Much.”
  3. And Sir Whiskerton, who burned all the remaining flyers.

Moral: Art is subjective (and sometimes ovoid).

The End.


Key Jokes:

  • “The yolk’s on you, man” (delivered like a noir punchline).
  • Elvis accidentally laying an egg mid-performance.
  • Ratso’s egg-based existentialism.
  • Bessie’s grass monologue (“Is it salad?”).

Starring: Jazzpurr (beatnik host), Ratso (noir rat), Elvis (egg-laying icon), and Bessie (kale enthusiast).

P.S. The egg still holds the trophy. No one dares take it. 🥚🏆

Wrong.

BYD is the largest manufacturer of EV’s, and in February its sales were up 90% YOY.

Meanwhile, Tesla continues to drop.

As for why people hate him:

  1. Maybe it’s the Nazi salutes.
  2. Maybe it’s him and his band of incels firing tens of thousands of people whose jobs they know nothing about.
  3. Maybe it’s the Cybertruck, which got recalled 8 times in a single year.
  4. Maybe it’s the fact he bought a presidency, and is now shopping for docile Congresspeople and Supreme Court judges in Wisconsin.
  5. Maybe it’s the fact that he was an illegal immigrant, but is now anti-immigration except for white South Africans and the Indian engineers he hires on the cheap and knows won’t push for unionization because their H-1B visas are at stake.
  6. Maybe it’s the fact the richest man has to be taken to court to pay even the minimum child support required by law for several of his 14 children.
  7. Maybe it’s the fact he hasn’t even tried to raise any of them.
  8. Maybe it’s the fact he says his own child is dead because she identifies as a girl when he wanted a boy.
  9. Maybe it’s the fact that Tesla paid just $48 million in taxes FOR THE LAST 3 YEARS despite getting 30% of its revenue — and often half its profits — from government handouts in the form of carbon tax credits.
  10. Maybe it’s the fact he keeps calling it Full Self Driving when it requires “Supervision” (look at the website), resulting in needless accidents and deaths.
  11. Maybe it’s the fact he lied about restarting Ebola prevention efforts, after wrongly cutting them in the first place.
  12. Maybe it’s the fact his “total transparency” on DOGE is full of lies, mistakes, sudden disappearances and complete bullshit.
  13. Maybe there are so many more awful things about that failed human that I can’t stand to list them all.
  14. Maybe it’s the fact that he didn’t invent Tesla, the one car he “led” was the disastrous Cybertruck, and the company would be MUCH better off without his toxic involvement.

Indeed, IDEs are sometimes more of a hindrance than a help when you’re learning a new programming language. However, this isn’t true of CLion, which can be very helpful right off the bat. Let’s run through some of the advantages of using CLion:

CLion makes it easy to start a new project. The wizard will generate a simple project structure with stub code that you can explore and run right away.

Then, as you start writing code, CLion will highlight its structure and suggest improvements. This allows you to learn both the language itself and the best code practices from the very beginning.

For many error cases, CLion suggests quick-fixes, which means you can start memorizing the proper solutions right off the bat. For example, the IDE catches typical errors like dangling pointers – the types of errors that might pop up a lot when you’re a newbie but can also be hard to debug.

The building, running, and debugging processes are completely transparent, as are VCS operations. You can control every step, see the exact commands, parameters, and flags that are being used, and experiment with them. If necessary, you can always perform the same actions in the built-in terminal.

CLion allows you to become familiar with a variety of compilers and build systems. It works with gcc, Clang, MSVC compilers, and project formats, such as CMake, Makefile, Meson, and others.

Understanding the underlying assembly is important when you’re learning a language like C++. CLion allows you to examine the assembly of a file without having to build the entire project. You can change the compiler flags, refresh the assembly view, and see the effect immediately.

And, of course, the IDE debugger is very convenient for learning. The IDE will help you investigate any runtime problem, including those that require memory analysis and disassembly.

To summarize, CLion will not overwhelm you with a complex set-up process and will not hide the essentials in the background. You’ll be able to get up and running with a project in no time, while learning best code practices and efficient debugging right out of the gate.

And if you’re a student, you can get it all for free!

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In the eyes of Westerners, I might be burdened with original sin—I am Chinese, not young anymore, and raised under a communist education.

But think about it: a relatively weak country (A), after embracing this ideology, stood in opposition to the world’s most powerful nation,which also held every geopolitical advantage(B), for 50 years before finally collapsing.

A = the Soviet Union.
B = the United States.

I’ve always said to Americans: You shouldn’t mock the Soviet Union, because that’s tantamount to mocking yourselves.

The Chinese Communist Party hasn’t had it easy either.

From its founding in 1921 to its nationwide victory in 1949.

Every day, 350 CCP members were killed.

Over more than ten thousand days, 350 people were killed each day — beheaded, shot, buried alive, burned to death…

Every single day.

Through 28 years of bloody slaughter, this party rose from a pool of blood.

It must have had the support of many people.

Communism has, to a significant extent, been stigmatized.

I admit that in the process of trying to realize communism, there have been too many setbacks and sacrifices, as well as lunatics acting in its name, like North Korea.

But communism is indeed worth pursuing.

“From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs!”

The beauty of communism doesn’t lie in conjuring up a flawless paradise, but in the fact that the system of human exploitation will eventually be cast aside, and the shackles of alienated labor will finally be broken.

True communism is never found in financial statements. It’s hidden in the reflection of a newly dug well in Makomba village—where a Chinese agricultural technician and a Black brother share an enamel cup, and hybrid rice seeds burst into waves of green under the equatorial sun.

When cobalt miners in the Democratic Republic of Congo can support their children with the profits from the mines.

When the electricity generated on the African continent can power factories owned by Africans themselves.

When the two railway tracks built by China, seen from above, resemble stitches sewing up the wounds torn into the earth!

When we acknowledge: I am human, and he is human too—not livestock!

—This is the echo of the oath “from each according to his ability, to each according to his needs” resounding in the 21st century!

 

It’s not famous the H2R is as it’s more powerful & lighter & widely regarded as the fastest production bike though it’s not street legal. You would need to swap some H2 parts so it has things like lights. Our chief engineer has one he owns 14 bikes & it’s brutal compared to my bike which produces 210hp. Expensive bike to run though short service intervals & the only bike I know that manages to rip its tires. Rear looked like a big cat had clawed it 4 curved gashes presumably from powering on with rubbish, stones on the road.

The original was nuts rode that to & you absolutely wait for it to be warmed up before giving it much throttle or it will do its best to flip itself.

Nostalgia Cafe

Written in response to: Set your story in a café, garden, or restaurant.

Nick DeLarso

“Welcome to Nostalgia Cafe!” a gentle voice proclaimed as the front door had come to a close. The inside was immensely dystopian, though Steven shrugged aside the eerie forewarning. He approached the counter apprehensively, craning his neck in every-which direction.“I’m Steven Ross, with Blueprint Media. I’m here for the investigative piece regarding the spike in nostalgia intake.” Steven pressed his tote bag close to his waist, reaching inattentively with an attempt at removing a piece of identification from the front pocket. “I must’ve left it in the car, let me run and..-“The voice cut him off: “Oh yes, nice to meet you Steven; we’ve been expecting you, do not worry.” The voice was becoming, and she smiled incessantly as she spoke. “My name’s Desire, and I’ll be showing you around.”From his initial perspective, Steven saw dozens of people, enveloped inside of a small, cubicle-like space, attached to a device that cradled their skull, similar to a rugby helmet. They were motionless, radiated by a blue hue that barely illuminated the darkness, revealing a brief glimpse of their inanimate visages. Besides the conversation at the front desk, you could have heard a pin drop in the cafe. Steven removed a small notepad, immediately beginning to jot down some of his findings.“How long have you worked here?” Steven turned towards the employee, Desire, and attempted to exude some mirth.

“Since the beginning. It’s a lovely work environment. Would you like to see one of the empty realms? I can explain how they work.”

“Lead the way.” Steven trailed behind Desire, gently maneuvering through the tight spaces between the boxes. At a closer look, drool could be seen accumulating around the corner of the patron’s lips where a clear-feeding tube connected, to which his brow furrowed with an inquisitive glare. “Are these people conscious?” Steven spoke quietly, finally arriving at their destination.

“You can call it that. Their bodily functions are still intact, they are just not present inside of this realm, if that makes sense. These neurocaps, as we call them, attach to the top of your skull. Of course, these are only compatible with the folks who have had the neuroconduit implant, which is a percentage that is gaining great traction every day. These caps, similar to bluetooth, have the ability to hijack your current consciousness, subjecting you to your fondest memories, or the fondest memories of others. As you might know, nostalgia is one of the greatest feelings known to mankind; it is essentially our brain recognizing the greatest and most memorable moments of our lifetime. This has ten-times the dopamine release as opium without the physical ailments that follow usage.” Desire did not budge from her smiling disposition during her explanation.

“Interesting…” Steven was notating along with her spiel, underlining certain-important factors for later reporting. “So what you’re describing is essentially a drug, if I’m deciphering this correctly?”

“We believe drug is a harsh term; this, as we see it, is a cure for the lack of excitement in modern life. It allows the youth to witness a world, free of technology’s grasp, ironically enough. When kids played outside, without the need for social media or others’ validations. Or even, someone living out their childhood dreams! I know it seems counterproductive, but as you and the rest of the world know, technology is not going anywhere. If this reality will not supply happiness to humanity, we will have to use the most powerful tool in the Universe: the brain.”

Steven frowned momentarily, though his optimism had seemingly grown from its initial state of uncertainty with her response. “So you see this as a fix to the current state of life? Why not use this message to promote life outside of these helmets, rather than shackling the people to this technology? I know you said it’s not going anywhere, but there is always the margin for change.” Steven pressed the top of the pen against his lips, again studying some of the people hooked up to the cap.

“This Nation is no longer a Democracy, Steven. We have eclipsed that and have entered a Technocracy. The most powerful people on the planet own our search data, our health records; they’ve created algorithms for just about each individual on this planet and know how to affect our daily lives. They have discovered that our conscience is no more than a computer itself, with the ability to be hacked and structured in any way seen fit, especially if they’re in control of our gene structures and our conscious way of thought. We here are allowing individuals to use their brain and decide for themselves where their happiness lies—even if that is in someone else’s glory.”

Steven took a moment. Being thirty-five years old in the year 2030, he attempted to recollect his past before cell phones and the internet. It seemed foreign to even conclude that there was a time where people did not have a device attached to their hand, better yet their heads; but somehow, he remembered how bright the Sun used to shine on early mornings during Summer break; or the feeling of the brisk Fall, torpedoing through the Summer’s humidity on a random, late-September night as they awaited their parent’s voices to call them inside for dinner.

Most importantly, he reflected on his longing to become a Journalist as a child, watching the news with his Father, who was also a Journalist, and how he would critique their substandard reporting. It nearly brought a tear to his eye, finally materializing such a fantasy as his own. And there it was, just experienced in that paramount thought: nostalgia. How potent it was, forever just out of reach physically, but always nestled inside the warmest parts of our memory, ready to resurface in an instant at the most unexpected moment.

“How are you able to create these fond memories?” Steven began writing once again, in preparation for the response.

“Well, some people have the privilege to vividly remember a memory, like a movie; others, they write down a certain fragrance, or sound, or sentence—we’re able to take this data and create an exact match to what they’re pining for. If it doesn’t work initially, we will continue to attempt at creating this exact match. Once the match is made, the cap will sense that nostalgia is beginning to stimulate metabolic activity and blood flow in several regions of the brain, particularly the frontal, limbic, paralimbic, and midbrain areas. From here, the memory is projected into the brain; this data is downloaded into our servers, and the cycle of nostalgia is created for those who have never experienced these certain perspectives of life.”

Steven was flabbergasted, and his hands began to shake as he wrote the correspondence down. “How long do some of these people spend here?” He once again would gander abroad to all of the inhabited nooks.

“As long as needed. Some people, they never leave the benevolent loop of nostalgia. We’ve even seen people create new nostalgia within the neurocap. People who could never achieve their dreams; maybe they didn’t have the funds, or a tragedy struck. The inner-consciousness of the neurocap is expanding. It’s very exciting progress.” Desire responded candidly.

“That is pretty amazing. There must be a cost, no?” Steven’s pen moved within a serpentine, his hand sliding eloquently across the page.

“That’s the kicker: Nostalgia Cafe is a self-funding tool. As you opt to upload your own Nostalgia, you are generating Nostalgia Coins with your own brain’s energy! These can be used at any Nostalgia Cafe, worldwide. Nostalgia Coins can be converted into any of the prominent Cryptocurrencies. We are projected to become the largest within the next five-years at this pace.”

“Wouldn’t the financial aspect cause a bit of conflict with the intent? Couldn’t the creator simply lock people in, for financial gain? And how does one exit this concocted neuro-realm?” Steven’s tone was reticent, nearly rhetoric.

“The same way you’ve entered. All you must do is exit the Nostalgia Cafe. No one is forced to stay.” Desire’s response was ambiguous, though Steven did not retort. This was the first time her smile departed, but only for a second.

Steven felt the danger of this revolving door, essentially supplying your own means to disassociate from the current world; however, there was an enticing nature within this scientific discovery. He knew the reason he was sent here in the first place, to immerse himself into this newly-discovered world, head-first, as a respected Journalist. “I actually have the neuroconduit myself; many of us at Blueprint had received the chip initially, for faster data processing.” He looked over his notebook endearingly. “You know, it was always a dream of mine to be a Journalist—to get the chance to break-open a story, just like my Father—to really expose the truth.” There was an incessant memory that prodded at Steven’s attention span, though he tried to ignore it.

“Nostalgia awaits you, Steven.” Desire took a step aside, displaying the open space in its entirety.

Steven gulped at Desire’s words, followed by the racing of his heart. Steven took a step forward, grabbing hold of the chair to alleviate the wobbling of his legs. “I’m not sure, this sounds a bit..dangerous, no?”

“There’s no danger in the past.” Desire’s voice was stern.

Steven looked towards the front door, which was engulfed by a fog, distorting anything past the windowpane. “Weather seems nasty outside; I guess it wouldn’t hurt to try for a few minutes, for journalistic measures.” Steven sat down reluctantly, rubbing his hands along the arms of the leather chair. In his hands, he cupped the mechanism that would supply himself with endless elation; and that aforementioned memory, it was prying once again to be remembered, just before the helmet could be placed upon his skull.

“I’ll see you again, Steven. And thank you for your loyalty to Nostalgia Cafe.” Desire sauntered away from his space, still smiling.

“Wait a minute!” Steven stopped Desire in her tracks, to which she turned to face him once more. “I know you said all you have to do is leave; but how do you know you’re no longer in the actual realm?” Steven had a question mark and an asterisk next to this question.

“Once the memory is complete.” And she continued toward the front desk.

“Loyalty?”… Steven thought it odd she would allude to such, as this was his first visit; nonetheless, he continued as planned: Steven quickly placed the neurocap upon his head before he closed his eyes shut; then, he took a dozen or so deep breaths, to clear what was unnecessarily cluttered within his mind. It was only moments before he would return to that other realm of nostalgia, one filled with anachronistic promises and emancipation from a world of deceit.

“Welcome to Nostalgia Cafe!”

Tesla’s stock drop is due to a combination of reasons:

  • Tesla was WAY overvalued
  • Their sales were already shrinking last year
  • Their only product launch in 5 years was a flop
  • Musk came out as a Nazi, MAGA activist and huge Trump donor, triggering a massive worldwide boycott
  • Musk has ruthlessly and illegally fired 100,000 government employees
  • Tesla is losing to BYD in the China market and to other car makers in the rest of the world

In 2025 Tesla is doomed to have a disastrous year. Europe sales are falling like a rock. Tesla is now a toxic brand in Canada, Australia and the US.

First, by November 2024 Tesla’s market cap (total value of all outstanding shares) was greater than the market caps of the 20 biggest car companies in the world combined. So Toyota, Honda, GM, Ford, Mercedes, BMW, VW, Ferrari, Porsche, Subaru, Fiat-Chrysler all added together were worth LESS than Tesla! While other car companies had a PE ratio of 6 to 10, Tesla’s PE was over 100. It was WAY overvalued due to very high growth expectations.

In 2024 Tesla’s sales actually shrunk! Just based on being way overvalued and their sales declining, their stock has to get punished.

The Cybertruck is ugly AF, and has been plagued with quality problems. That is Tesla’s only new vehicle in 5 years.

Then Musk became a full-scale Nazi political activist, giving hundreds of millions of dollars to Trump’s campaign, actively campaigning for Trump, spouting right wing political propaganda and conspiracy theories on Twitter, and then the Nazi salute twice at Trump’s inauguration. This was especially stupid because most of the people buying Teslas are Democrats. Europeans really hate Nazis, so that Nazi salute triggered Europeans to boycott Tesla aggressively.

The past two months Musk has taken the lead role in Trump’s administration, not merely taking over government IT systems and firing 100,000 government employees, but also doing it as rudely as possible (e.g. telling career employees they have 15 minutes to clear out their desk and leave the building with no severance), and bragging about it on Twitter and in podcasts and on Fox News, and dancing on stage with a chain saw like it’s a big joke.

Competition — in Tesla’s second biggest market, China, BYD is way beating Tesla. BYD has a great car at half the price of Tesla with much better self driving in China. In other markets EV competition from Hyundai, Mercedes, BMW, Ford, VW and others.

Now the used Tesla market is plummeting because people don’t want to own a Swasticar. Why would anyone buy a new Tesla when you can have a used one dirt cheap?

Also, Tesla is losing the robo-taxi competition to Waymo.

Tesla has an ABSENTEE CEO. Musk claimed to be a professional gamer in 2024. In 2025 he’s moved to Washington to head DOGE. He is CEO of six companies at once, which is ridiculous. At most he could spend 10 hours a week on each company. He has spent exactly zero time managing Tesla over the past year…other than damage control for his Cybertruck disaster.

Apricot Cheese Crescents

96afd016aa2d9b0c2c2e42f67c6604c4
96afd016aa2d9b0c2c2e42f67c6604c4

Yield: 4 1/2 dozen

Ingredients

Pastry

  • 2 cups all-purpose flour
  • 1/2 teaspoon salt
  • 1 cup cold butter
  • 1 cup (8 ounces) small-curd cottage cheese

Filling

  • 1 (6 ounce) package dried apricots
  • 1/2 cup water
  • 1/2 cup granulated sugar

Topping

  • 3/4 cup finely chopped almonds
  • 1/2 cup granulated sugar
  • 1 egg white, lightly beaten

Instructions

Pastry

  1. In a large bowl, combine flour and salt; cut in butter until crumbly. Add cottage cheese; mix well. Shape into 1 inch balls.
  2. Cover and refrigerate several hours or overnight.

Filling

  1. Combine apricots and water in a saucepan. Cover and simmer for 20 minutes.
  2. Cool for 10 minutes.
  3. Pour into a blender; cover and process on high speed until smooth. Transfer to a bowl; stir in sugar. cover and chill.

Topping

  1. Heat oven to 375 degrees F. Grease a cookie sheet.
  2. Combine almonds and sugar; set aside.
  3. On a floured surface, roll the balls into 2 1/2 inch circles. Spoon about 1 teaspoon of filling onto each. Fold dough over filling and pinch edges to seal. Place on prepared cookie sheet. Brush tops with egg white; sprinkle with almond mixture.
  4. Bake for 12 to 15 minutes or until lightly browned.

Samsung burnt its bridges when it sued the Chinese users who reported Galaxy Note 7 catching fire. It’s market share dropped from 20% to less than 1% after that and never recovered.

Samsung will have to kneel and beg and suck us double hard to get Chinese customers to buy their stuff again. But apparently Samsung is operating just fine without the China market so it doesn’t want to do that.

Big Announcement!

I have just created a LoFi channel on youtube.

Link here: New Channel

It is a LoFi channel based on the Sir Whiskerton Universe. Each video is a short LoFi background tune, and the images are animations of the Sir Whiskerton Characters. I also include short biographies of each character.

I generated the LoFi music myself, the artwork myself, the resulting video components myself, and finally the final video. I hope to add something nice to this crazy world we are caught up in.

  • Please visit the webpage.
  • Please subscribe.
  • Please give me a heart or a thumbs up, and finally…
  • …tell me what you think.

Regards, -MM

Voice matters—but so does creativity

Because you are a brainless sheep who lives only to find new targets to hate.

Incapable of independent thought, or understanding the concept that someone disagreeing with you may not support the person you hate, you are just a simpleton who has decided to remove the burden of intelligent thought from your life and chosen someone else to think for you.

You are a mouthpiece for other people’s ideas, this is proven by the fact that you can’t even articulate why you hate Tesla, and are reaching out so others can instruct you on how to live your life, you are literally asking other people to speak for you because you don’t even know why you dislike Tesla.

Why doesn’t China accept refugees like civilised countries do?

You know in China, if you invite your friends for a drink, and you open another bottle of liquor for a toast, it is 100% your job to drink it up.

Bottom up, cheers, not a single drop left.

Otherwise your friends will think you are lame braggart. You may ask your friends at the table to help you drink some, but it will be nonsense for any of you to blame someone else who is not even at the table, for not helping you.

If you are the host and you can’t drink, don’t open that bottle.

If you get invited by a lame host, and you don’t like to be forced to drink, then don’t go.

Actually, without those so called civilized countries and their direct, indirect support into those dirty bloody wars, there wouldn’t have been this many refugees in the first place.

Why should China wipe your ass, or clean the mess after your party?

They are the one who keeps telling you don’t do it, shouldn’t do it, stop doing it…

Your people vote for your politicians and military to give those people freedom, now they have it, in your own country.

That is a Mission Accomplished.

What’s better, you don’t have to spend trillions to deliver freedom over, they come for it. Cheaper, faster, safer, isn’t it better?

Afterall, it’s you who opened that bottle, not China. Say no more, say no more, buddy, cheers, bottom up, not a single drop left.

Cause that’s the only way for you to stay civilized, barely.

Cranberry Barbecue Beans

Sweet savory, and bursting with cranberries, these barbecue beans are begging to be served alongside your holiday ham.

Cranberry Barbecue Beans

Yield:10 to 12 servings

Ingredients

  • 1 (1 pound) package Camellia Brand Navy Beans
  • 8 ounces (6 slices) thick cut bacon, chopped
  • 1 1/2 cups chopped sweet onion
  • 1 cup fresh or frozen cranberries, thawed
  • 1 cup ketchup
  • 1 cup barbecue sauce
  • 1/2 cup cane syrup
  • 1/2 cup yellow mustard
  • 2 tablespoons chopped fresh thyme
  • 2 cups chicken broth

Instructions

  1. In a large bowl, add beans and water to cover by 3 inches. Cover and let soak overnight.
  2. Drain beans and rinse.
  3. In a large Dutch oven, add beans and water to cover by 2 inches. Bring to a boil over high heat. Cook until beans are tender, about 1 hour.
  4. Drain, discarding liquid.
  5. In same Dutch oven, cook bacon over medium-high heat, stirring occasionally, until fat is beginning to render, about 5 minutes.
  6. Add onion; cook, stirring frequently, until onion is tender and starting to brown at edges, 5 to 7 minutes.
  7. Add beans and cranberries; cook, stirring constantly, for 2 minutes.
  8. Add ketchup, barbecue sauce, cane syrup, mustard, and thyme. Cook for 2 minutes.
  9. Add chicken broth; bring to a boil. Reduce heat to medium-low. Cook, uncovered, until sauce is thick, 45 to 60 minutes.

Notes

Bean math: 1 (15 ounce) can beans = 1 1/2 cups cooked beans, drained.

If you have an avoidant personality or love someone who does, then read on; this is written from a place of straightforward experience and empathy. Often someone with an avoidant personality doesn’t want to do the actual “break up” themselves. But if you won’t and they have to, it will be polite and civil. “It’s not you, it’s me…I wish you well…you have a bright future ahead of you…blah.” (I’ve heard that speech a few times in my life so I have it memorized.)

If you find yourself pushed to the brink of your emotional endurance by their avoidance, struggle to communicate, hesitation over commitment, and similar concerns that leave you feeling rejected (Again, can you tell I’ve walked this road? Dating and marriage has lent me its experience.) then perhaps you have been the one to end things and you wonder how it will affect them. Well, at first they will feel relief. But that won’t last. Then come the feelings of intense loneliness, self-doubt, feeling that their needs are a burden and that they’ll always drive everyone away, that no one will stay. They may or may not try to get you back once they realize there’s been a mistake. They may throw themselves into work or hobbies to keep themselves busy. Some turn to alcohol or other things. Anything to numb the emotions.

And here’s the thing; the internet will make them out to be bad people. “Experts” will call them cold, narcissistic, stoic, hard hearted, even cruel. And many in the comments will fuel the fire yelling and railing about how they were hurt by an avoidant ex or currently being hurt by an avoidant partner and that people with those personality types need to grow up, that we shouldn’t coddle them or step on eggshells etc. And that makes me so angry. People with avoidant attachment styles aren’t bad people. They are also not cold or narcissistic. (Classic narcissism is very rare and people throw the word around too much.) Many of them are very generous, giving, charitable, and ethical. They just so happen to carry baggage (like everyone else) and they’ve been hurt in life in such a way that their internal protective instinct was to build walls around their heart. They are good people worthy of love and respect, and from me they will be given empathy and understanding. Time has taught me lessons that I wish I had known twenty years ago.

I feel that rather than understanding how they respond to a breakup, it would be more helpful for you to understand how to love them in a non-threatening way so that instead of being yet another person who breaks up with them, you could finally be their person; their person who stays. You’ll need empathy, tenacity, and unconditional love though. If you don’t have those then do them a favor and walk away. Otherwise, read on. Here is an excerpt from one of my previous answers I wrote:

Avoidant people just want someone in their life who will be fair with them. Someone they can trust. Someone who will be worth the risk. Risk is terrifying to avoidant people. They have a deeply rooted fear of not being worthy of love; or at the least, of no one staying long enough to truly love them. They’re deeply lonely when you get down to it. Because they’ve never experienced people in their personal lives who did treat them fairly, or who didn’t place heavy or hidden expectations on them. Every time they thought they could let go and relax, someone dropped the bombshell on them; and you are a potential threat of that happening again. They’re afraid to bond with you because they haven’t had much of that in their life before. They’re hesitant to have a deep connection with you because it may make them feel smothered and pressured—even if they crave connection in their heart of hearts.

They have a defense mechanism that is many layers deep and most people are not patient enough to penetrate them. Avoidant people will do exactly what the name says; avoid you. They start to feel an intense emotional connection to you and they fear what it could mean if they allow themselves to depend on you. What if they lean on you emotionally or come to rely on you in some way and you leave? What if you use it against them in an argument? What if you depend on them and they let you down, then how will they be able to handle your disappointment? The potential risk is too much for them to bear, they tell themselves, so they put distance between you and them. They pull away. And if they ever get past that to potentially being engaged to you, they fear the risk in marriage. What if you take everything they have one day? If they try to prevent that with a prenup what if you refuse to sign? What if living with you takes away from them the few moments of peace they have in living alone? What if you hit them with hidden expectations? What if you try to change who they are? What if they can’t trust you? What if…? They fear the risks involved. They run risk analysis in their minds constantly over things that may or may not ever happen, but that cause anxiety nonetheless.

You want your love for them to bring them comfort, peace, and security, but instead it makes them feel pressured and afraid of letting you down—and even if you don’t feel that way, they do. Their fears seemingly come true personified by you. In the past they felt tolerated, or ignored, and you just want to shower them in love and affection; and to them this is overwhelming, foreign, and seems too good to be true. Unconditional love is not something they’ve had a lot of, at least not from romantic partners.

And in many cases, when they begin pushing their loved one away, their fears become a self-fulfilling prophecy when their partner feels rejected, unwanted, or hurt. Their partner breaks up with them, and they feel relieved at first because the pressure is gone. But then the intense loneliness returns, and the feelings of, “See? They left you too. You’ll never find love. You’ll always be alone,” come to mind. The cycle repeats over and over with each new love interest.

But if you truly love this person and want to be there long term in their life then you have to have tenacity. Love is a choice. It’s not just the rush of excitement, the spark of chemistry, or the thrill of lust. Love goes deeper; it’s a commitment that says, “no matter what happens, I will always be here for you. I choose you and I will not walk away. I will not back down or give up on you, because you deserve love. You deserve respect. You deserve to have someone in your corner no matter what. I am here and you are safe with me.”

That doesn’t mean smother them, but if you can’t give them the patience and determination it will take to gently peel back the layers and walls around their heart in order to get to their true selves, then please don’t be another person in their life that lets them down, makes promises, and then walks away in a fit of frustration. If you love them and are determined to stand by them then be someone who keeps your word. They deserve that.

Everyone deserves love. Unconditional love.

Edit: For the person who said in the comments people with avoidant personalities should be satisfied “just having friendships” in life, take a hike. Everyone deserves to be loved and cared for. No one should ever be left wondering why no one ever stays or if they are a burden or if their needs are just too much. No. Just because you can’t be their person doesn’t mean someone else can’t. This is what I mean. The internet is full of ridiculous notions and comments and I won’t tolerate it on my answer. I will delete those comments.

This is a WONDERFUL video.

ksnip 20250325 105359
ksnip 20250325 105359

Yes, farmers will suffer and potash is far from the only problem. 60% of the USs crude oil comes from Canada and is going to get more expensive.

Farmers use a huge amount of diesel fuel for planting and harvesting. Those tractors don’t run on nothing.

Speaking of tractors, parts for repairs are also going to go up. At the same time American agriculture products are facing tariffs in Canada and China means farmers sell less. Since Canadians are, rightfully, boycotting American products they sell even less.

Farmers already work on extremely thin margins. This could entirely break the American agricultural industry

~Awakening~

Written in response to: Center your story around a character who’s struggling to let go.

Jim Parker

~ Awakening ~

Charlie Sue woke feeling refreshed and ready for the day. She sat up in the queen sized bed stretching and looking for Dermott. He was usually a late sleeper. Oh there he was, sitting in the recliner by the door, just watching her. “What are you doing up so early Derms? Come here and give me a morning kiss.” He came over and gave her a peck on the lips, then sat on the bed, still silent. He was acting different, like he was nervous. “Somethings wrong. What is it?”

           “Nothing Honey. I was just waiting for you to wake up.”

           She went all business. “Bullshit. You never get up before me. And even if you did, you would be on the computer by now. Tell me. And don’t lie to me.”

           Intimidated, he hung in there. “No. Everything is fine. We’re going to have lunch with Miss Debbie and Shewuma today.”

           Time for a change in tactics. Charlie Sue pulled up her nightgown and straddled Dermott’s lap. She pushed her fingers slowly across his scalp through his red curls and went close to his ear, her lips nibbling as she cooed, “I know something is going on Poodle. We need to get past this because I want you inside of me.”

           That did it, Dermott’s will collapsed in on itself and he spilled the beans. She listened intently as he told her, in detail, about the events of the night before where Debbie found her outside in a zombie state transmitting information about the family to God knows who.

           Charlie Sue didn’t believe it. In the short time she had lived with Dermott she felt something about herself was different. Not broken, but off kilter, out of whack. But with her eidetic memory how was that possible? Anyone else but not her. “And we’re allegedly going to have lunch with Debbie so she can what, interrogate me or hypnotize me or something?” Charlie Sue climbed off of him and hurried to the bathroom, her whole demeanor shifting to focused purpose. Looking in the mirror at her failing sleep braid, she decided to forget the hair and make-up and grabbed the sweat suit she used for jogging. Mulling the consequences of everything Dermott had confessed, she peeked back through the door and saw him still sitting there sad faced and using a pillow to cover his erection. It would have been cute under normal conditions. “Get dressed Derms. I’m not waiting, we are going over there right now.”

**********

           Dermott and Charlie Sue left their guest cottage and walked deliberately towards the main house. All 85 pounds of Molly was outside and ran to them wagging her tail with a happy pets eagerness. Dermott stopped, intending to frolic for a moment but Charlie Sue doggedly kept going, so he abandoned Molly’s affections and caught up to her. She was focused to the point of manic. Sitting in an Adirondack chair on his front porch wrapped in a blue blanket, Robert Hazer sucked smoke from his Meerschaum pipe and waved a morning greeting. Some 30 yards away in the target practice area, Wolf was throwing cans of sparkling water backwards over his head, then spinning, drawing an arrow and pinning it, hissing it’s carbonation, to the nearest of 6 targets in a semi-circle. Dermott wanted to watch some of this mind-boggling display of skill but Charlie Sue kept hard charging on her mission and he stayed with her.

Shewuma gave them a jolt, suddenly appearing between them, seemingly out of nowhere and wrapping an arm around each waist. “Good morning kids. Where are you two heading so hell bent?”

Charlie Sue stopped and gave Wu a hard look. “I’m going to see Debbie.”

Wu eyed Dermott warily. “You told her. Debbie owes me a foot rub. We made a bet you wouldn’t…” Charlie Sue barreled forward. Shewuma grasped the back of the hoodie and spun her around. “I see from your aura that you are in riot mode. Calm down.”

Trying to jerk free Charlie Sue answered, “I don’t have time for this chit chat, Shewuma.”

Shewuma took her disheveled braid and pulled her face to face, wincing. Molly appeared next to Wu growling under her breath. Wu’s eyes went blank and cold. Charlie Sue remembered that same look in the eyes of a feeding Great White on Shark Week. Dark, menacing and ruthless. Her resolve didn’t falter, but fear mixed with common sense surged to the forefront. Like a fading dream she recalled experiencing this depth of dread once before but then the near memory was gone. How was that possible?

Shewuma could see in Charlie Sue’s darkening aura how badly she frightened her and tried to soften the situation, “Now you just settle it down young lady. You go in there and be respectful. This is not personal so you act accordingly. We clear?” Wu released the lock on her braid and waved Molly off.

“Yes Ma’am. I didn’t mean to…”

“Forget it. Let’s go work this out.”

Dermott began to speak and the women said in unison, “Shut up Dermott.” Then Wu heard Debbie say in her mind, “Bring them to the vault,” and she veered all three to the side door.

As the massive 5’x7’ door layered in thick sections of steel and concrete slowly opened into the vault, Charlie Sue expected to feel claustrophobic. Dermott had told her about the vault but actually seeing it was a revelation and looking around took her breath. Debbie came to Charlie Sue and enveloped her physically and mentally in a benevolent hug until she relaxed and then embraced it with a feeling of relief. Debbie spoke softly. “Everything will be fine. Something unnatural is happening with you. We’re going to figure out what it is, you need to let it go.” The high ceilinged vault was at least 40’x 25’. As the slow heavy door glided closed with a dull thud, Debbie gave her a quick tour. To her immediate left a pantry stocked with emergency survival essentials, from sleeping bags to food and everything in between. Next to it a full bath, then a kitchenette including a refrigerator. A little further down an enormous sectional couch. In the center of the room a boat shaped conference table that sat ten. Charlie Sue realized that practically everything in the room was white, including the impressive marble fireplace fully outfitted with logs and kindling. On either side of the fireplace, hung enough firepower and ammo for a small army. AR 15s, 9mm sidearms and 12 gauge pump action shotguns interspersed with edged weapons of all shapes and sizes. But what was most impressive was the far wall. Having minored in art history in college, Charlie Sue recognized valuable artifacts when she saw them. There were many but some stood out. Rock fragments covered with Egyptian hieroglyphs. A Pre-Incan figurine of a high priest made of gold, a bronze Viking cross from 12th century A.D. And incredibly an ancient Bagdad battery. But all of these artifacts paled in comparison to the treasures they flanked. A pyramid of recessed niches in the wall, each containing skulls carved from blue crystal. The legends were true.

Debbie said to Charlie Sue, “Yes. We call them the Sancti. They are super computers. I am their keeper until my people return to Earth.” Flabbergasted, Charlie Sue realized that Debbie could read her thoughts. Was it possible that all of Dermott’s crazy stories were true?

With no inkling of where this was going, Debbie, Wu and David E. wanted to take the highest road and give Charlie Sue complete benefit of the doubt but there was too much at stake. Holding her by the shoulders, Debbie said “Don’t worry Honey. Dermott loves you, so we all love you. We are your family now. Sit down here at the table and watch this. Then I am going to give you a complete physical.” A hologram of all of Debbie’s memories of Charlie Sue’s actions the night before began to run like a film.

As Debbie began the examination she telepathically asked Shewuma about the Eagle. Wu answered her mind to mind. “He’s on his way. I briefed him on everything we discussed. He’s a Shaman for the tribe, so he’s qualified and well versed in ancestral ritual. If it comes to the worst case scenario I’ll take care of it.”

Just then the Eagle and Jimmy entered the vault carrying a satchel, trash bags, and a silver serving tray with a teapot of hot water, cups and a stack of towels.

Debbie finished her examination and said telepathically to David E. “There is involuntary restriction in her core but no GI issues. That’s all I found.”

“Could be muscle memory holding on to unremembered sexual abuse. You better take Dermott out of the room, this could get dicey.” He thought back to her.

“She’s as healthy as a horse,” declared Debbie to the room. “David E. You’re up. And Jim, would you take Dermott and get him some breakfast? This might take a while. It will be boring.”

Debbie, Shewuma and Jimmy knew that David E. spent many years in secret cold war programs. MK Ultra, LSD trials and Remote Viewing being the only examples he had ever mentioned. He rarely spoke of any of it and if he did, the deep remorse embedded into him from that time in his life leaked through cracks in his normally unimpeachable character like immoral sludge from a rusted and long forgotten barrel of heinous deeds. So they were surprised at how dramatically his demeanor and behavior hardened as his questioning of Charlie Sue quickly became interrogation and then intimidation.

He began by asking her simple questions about her moods, sleep patterns and appetite. He logically moved on to previous relationships. Especially former lovers and her parents. Then her medical history and family medical history. Any mental illness, perhaps some trauma to her or trauma she witnessed? Is she or was she ever on any medications. His tone became steadily more aggressive and the questions more intrusive. On he went for many minutes until he was openly badgering her. Then, waving a folder of papers in front of her, he said, “This is your file from human resources at Lockheed. We know what you did. We know about the white wash at the plant. We know about your perverted sexual history.”

“No. That’s not true, why are you saying this?” Charlie Sue started to get up and Wu snatched her back to the seat and held her firm.

“BULLSHIT!” Hollered David E. and threw the pages in her face. “We’ll come back to this. Because I want your response to this question and don’t pretend like you don’t know or there will be consequences. What is your relationship with time?”

“I…don’t know what you mean.”

David E. nodded to Debbie and she pulled a plastic bag over Charlie Sue’s head. Charlie Sue kicked and squirmed to no avail as she hopelessly tried to gulp some precious air. With Eagle’s psychic help, Wu had been learning to disengage her empathic reception of someone’s emotions when touching them, but Charlie Sue’s feelings of terror and betrayal were leaking through and taking a toll on her. She knew she couldn’t keep it up much longer. Debbie removed the bag to gasps for breath and wracking sobs. “Why?” Charlie Sue could barely articulate.

David E. put his finger in her face. “Last Chance girl. Last go. What is your relationship with time?”

Tears streamed from her eyes and she cried out, almost hysterically, “I DON’T EVEN WEAR A WATCH!”

He sighed heavily, with finality. “That’s it Deb. No tics, no traumas, no phobias, no psychosomatic or buried mental illness. No sign of mental conditioning, mind control or torture.”

Shewuma stepped away, fighting back tears. Then quickly regained her composure. Debbie noticed her pain and asked her silently, “You all right Baby?”

Wu simply nodded.

David E. looked at Charlie Sue with true regret. “Sorry Honey.”

“Sorry! SORRY? You people are fucking crazy. I’m calling the cops! I’ll sue your asses! Does Dermott know about any of this?”

As she rose from the chair, Debbie pressed a nerve in Charlie Sue’s neck and she sat back, suddenly calm.

“Want to try the Amobarbital?” David E. asked. Debbie looked at Shewuma with consternation. “What do you think WuWu?”

“No. Dibs, when she thought she was suffocating, there was a muddy dull swirl in her aura over her head. I think that’s where we need to go.”

“I saw it too, Chieftess,” Said Eagle. “A disconnected level of consciousness.”

Debbie was fascinated. “So what do we do?”

“I think we can access it, but I will need your help Comista.” He held out his hand and Debbie and Wu both took hold. After several seconds Eagle said, “Good?”

Both women were in.

Jimmy came back, oblivious to the hell that had been imposed on Charlie Sue. “Jims,” Asked Debbie. “How is Dermott holding up?”

“He’s fine,” Jimmy stated. “He’s up there playing video games. Making any head way?” He noticed that Wu seemed distant and took her hand. “You okay Woser?”

Producing a forced smile, she kissed his knuckle, then looked at Eagle and said, “Let’s do this.”

Eagle looked around at his companions and said, “ For the time being, I ask that all of you move counter clockwise if you have to walk in a circle.”

Shewuma went to her knees and softly recited a Hopi prayer over and over while Eagle built a roaring fire and slid Charlie Sue in her chair about 3 feet in front, facing it. Addressing the sacred fire by name, calling it Fuego, he then asked the fire for five results from this ceremony: “Make me less judgmental of those I encounter. Help me forgive others when forgiveness is not my choice. Keep my wife Luce, safe and happy. Help my new daughter learn wisdom and respect for Mother Earth and her ancestors. And please Fuego, help us unravel the mystery of Charlie Sue and her secret life.”

The next minutes of preparation were uneventful. The Eagle made tea. Crushing several buttons of what Debbie realized was Peyote. He separated them into three China cups on a silver tray and poured the hot water over them. While they steeped, He put a large black trash bag and the bath towels next to Charlie Sue. After setting the serving tray on the floor in front of the fire, he handed Charlie Sue and Shewuma each a cup and took the third one for himself. “Can you drink Charlie Sue?”

She nodded yes, still in a compliant state from Debbie’s earlier application of acupressure.

Within moments of drinking the gritty liquid, Jimmy and David E. were startled and reacted as all three began to vomit. Debbie stopped them, explaining it was normal to throw up after drinking Peyote.  Expecting it, Eagle tried to contain the mess in the trash bag as best he could. Then continued cleaning up with the towels. He paused and said, “You guys should get comfortable. We are going to be here for a while.” Wu and Charlie Sue appeared to doze off.

Jimmy sat on the couch and began fiddling on his phone. David E. started around the conference table towards the laptop. Debbie interrupted him telepathically with, “Counter clockwise David E. Remember?”

“Sorry.” He whispered and turned to the other direction. Debbie went to its perch in the wall and joined with her Sanctum. As she covered the 13th Sancta with her hands, all of the Crystal Skulls emitted a blue luminance that enveloped her.

**********

Jimmy turned off his phone and stretched. Three hours of computer spades was enough. He was bored and scanned the room hoping for something, anything to happen. David E, was typing away on the laptop. Lord only knew what crazy conspiracy he was working on. Debbie, still covered with blue light, had not moved a muscle. Computers are supposed to be so fast. What the hell did they talk about for three hours. Eagle had been just sitting and staring at Charlie Sue the whole time. But then Eagle stood with urgency. He touched Wu to bring her around. “Debs. I think something is up.” Jimmy whispered. And she hurried over.

Eagle and Wu holding hands so he could talk to her silently, were pointing and commenting about the space over Charlie Sue’s head. Debbie placed her hand on theirs. “Don’t wake her Comista. See her aura through my eyes.” Debbie was fascinated. She saw it. Shimmering layers of colored light projecting outward from the body. And there, over her head as they said, a swirl of darkness. “It’s an independent level of consciousness, Comista. Only connects to her Delta state. I’ve heard they are possible but I never believed it until now.”

Debbie’s Sancti addressed the event full bore and it made sense. Of course. A separate altered state of consciousness. With no connection to her other levels and brain waves of sentience, it could work unimpeded while she slept and then disappear as if it never existed when she left Delta sleep.

“Comista. I need you to pull her Delta state into her Beta frequency. She should wake up and remember everything. Can you do that?”

“Yes Eagle. I think I can.”

“Okay. Give us a second to prepare. I don’t know how this will go.” He gently picked up Charlie Sue’s limp body into a firm hug and Wu put both hands on her shoulders to feel what was about to happen. “Comista, do it!”

Debbie pulled the delta waves and the unknown state of being into Charlie Sue’s Beta consciousness and all hell broke loose. Charlie Sue awoke in shock, struggling and clawing the air as she let go with a bloodcurdling scream. Shewuma cried out and dropped to the floor, unconscious.

I chuckled when I read the question. 🙂

“Foolproof?” I cannot tell you how many times folks tell me what they need, because they’ve spent an hour researching on the Internet.

My firm (https://www.L4SB.com/) competes with LegalZoom and others, selling LLC registrations. When an order comes in, a paralegal will be assigned to the case — we don’t automate. I cannot tell you how many times a week a paralegal will come into my office saying, “Umm, a client is ordering a LLC for her medical practice, but I think she’s in a state where she needs a PC or PLLC.”

Point being, it’s really easy to give clients what they ask for. It’s much harder to really understand what the client is asking, and then make sure they are doing it to serve their best interest.

Manager managed versus member managed? That’s a good question, and there are real legal consequences down the road. A good operating agreement? It’s more important than you might imagine.

If you’re interacting with any third-party, i.e. partners, clients, investors, etc., you owe it to yourself to verify that whoever you’re doing business with will actually have properly licensed attorneys and paralegals helping you.

Good luck to you! Larry.

I’ve said it many times before.

The moment you think there is nothing to be learned from outside, is when your society is doomed.

The Song thought that and were overthrown.

Then the Yuan thought that and were overthrown.

The Ming thought that and they too were overthrown.

The Qing also thought this and guess what they too were overthrown.

Today you can look at westerners, many of them think they are the APEX society and nothing can be learned from the subhumans outside. Francis Fukiyama in the 1990s wrote about the END of history how western literal democracy was the PEAK of CIVILISATION and nothing could be better.

Or look at how many white supremacists are online and in real life whereby they think they are peak civilisation and nothing can be better than them and everybody has to follow them.

Richard Lock literally said Africa has to follow western countries or they will be left behind.

Oh and you’re also shit at maths.

PRC China has 47 million students source:

China has over 47 mln higher-education students in 2023
BEIJING, March 1 (Xinhua) — China had over 47.63 million students at higher-educational institutions of various types in 2023, an increase of 1.08 million over the previous year, or up 2.32 percent year on year, the Ministry of Education said on Friday. Last year, over 10.42 million students were enrolled in universities, colleges and vocational schools nationwide, up 2.73 percent year on year, the ministry told a press conference. It noted about 1.3 million graduate students were enrolled across China in 2023, an increase of 4.76 percent over the previous year. The country boasted 3,074 higher-educational institutions in 2023, 61 more than 2022, the ministry said, adding that there were 2.07 million full-time teachers in higher education, up 4.91 percent from the previous year. The gross enrollment ratio in China’s higher education reached 60.2 percent in 2023, up 0.6 percentage points from 2022, the ministry noted.

There is just over 1 million overseas Chinese students.

Market report China
Read our market report on China for the latest student recruitment and study abroad data and insights on this exciting destination

Which is the bigger number?

47,000,000

1,000,000

Come on tell don’t prove this meme!

Tesla and China are battling to electrify diesel trucks. Climate funds and Wall Street want in.

The numbers are damning. You all must watch this.

ksnip 20250325 105900
ksnip 20250325 105900

It will not. Plus people are now sharing just how miserable teslas are in terms of quality and durability. Tesla blames owners for failures of parts they know are defective; like blaming an owner for putting the car through a car wash when a power steering pump fails.

Low mileage teslas are increasingly inhabiting junk yards. While they do have good acceleration, they are too heavy and performs poorly in curves. I enjoy taking my little Toyota MR2 (modified) out on track days and am surprised when a tesla shows up. On a track that rewards momentum through turns, and especially hairpins, I can make up three car lengths or more on a tesla and on short straights they cannot catch up.

They are shit cars in every dimension. On one track there is a slight rise with a short downslope on the back end. I cannot see ANY tesla having the suspension to handle the droop that this causes at speed while maintaining control.

This didn’t happen to me, it happened to my mom. She grew up in Romania/Transylvania. She said she went to see a ‘gypsy lady’.

The lady took a hair from my mom’s head. She placed a bowl of ice water on my mom’s head. She put the hair into some hot wax and poured the wax into the cold water. She then took the blob that formed in the ice water and told my mom her fortune. She was apparently freaked out and said she saw graves.

Lots and lots of graves. It frightened the gypsy lady that she crossed herself. She didn’t know what that was.

She said that my mom would leave the graves and travel across a body of water. When she got to that new land she would meet and marry there. She would then travel across a bigger body of water.

She would have two children. She would become a widow early and would not re marry.

My mom was in the holocaust and was in Auschwitz. She left there and travelled to Israel where she met my dad.

They left Israel and came to USA. She had my brother and me. My dad died in his early 60’s and my mom never re married. Now I don’t know if the gypsy told her how long she would live. She never told me that. My mom died a few days before her 90th birthday.

Sir Whiskerton and the Case of the Misplaced Meow:
A Tale of Silent Feline Fury, Groovy Interpretive Dance, and the Most Embarrassing Week of Sir Whiskerton’s Life


Chapter 1: The Sneeze That Stole Christmas (Or At Least a Meow)

The tragedy began, as all great tragedies do, with Zephyr the Genie trying to be helpful.

Sir Whiskerton had been in the middle of his third morning lecture to Ditto the Kitten about the “importance of enunciating one’s disdain properly” when Zephyr materialized in a puff of lavender-scented smoke directly in front of him.

  • “Whoa, heavy vibes, my feline friend,” Zephyr intoned, his lava lamp bubbling ominously. “Your aura’s like, totally blocked. Let me—”
  • “No,” said Sir Whiskerton.

Zephyr sneezed.

It wasn’t a normal sneeze. It was a mystical sneeze—the kind that shimmered with cosmic intent and smelled vaguely of patchouli and poor decisions.

And just like that—

Sir Whiskerton opened his mouth to deliver a scathing remark…

And nothing came out.

  • “Mrrp?” he tried.

Silence.

  • “MEE—”

Nothing.

His meow was gone.


Chapter 2: The Farm Descends Into Chaos

News spread faster than Doris the Hen at a grain sale.

  • “Sir Whiskerton’s mute?” gasped Porkchop the Pig, spitting out his breakfast turnip. “But how will he monologue about his brilliance?”
  • “This is paw-thetic,” Sir Whiskerton mouthed, his tail lashing.

Ditto, ever the helpful apprentice, immediately began echoing his lip movements in perfect, infuriating silence.

Meanwhile, Count Catula swooped in, draping himself over a fencepost.

  • “Ah! The silent treatment! How dramatic!” he declared, pressing a paw to his forehead. “You could be a star of the silver screen! The Lonely Phantom of the Barnyard!”

Sir Whiskerton responded with a mime so scathing, it should have legally counted as assault.


Chapter 3: The Rise of Interpretive Dance

Desperate times called for desperate gestures.

With no meow, Sir Whiskerton resorted to:

  1. Pointed Paws (for “you’re an idiot”).
  2. Tail Semaphore (for “fetch me the farmer, you incompetent loaf”).
  3. Full-Body Interpretive Dance (for “ZEPHYR, FIX THIS OR I WILL END YOU”).

It was during Option 3 that Tony the Dancing Bear wandered by.

  • “DUDE. Are you freestyling?” Tony gasped, his tiny ukulele strapped to his back. “This is next-level!”

Before Sir Whiskerton could mime “ABSOLUTELY NOT,” Tony had joined in, spinning on one foot and accidentally knocking over Bartholomew the Piñata.

  • “…What is happening?” mouthed Bessie the Tie-Dye Cow, watching the scene unfold.
  • “Performance art,” whispered Ratso the Rat, scribbling notes for his film noir screenplay. “The Maltese Meow.”

Chapter 4: The Quest for the Lost Meow

Sir Whiskerton’s investigation led him to:

  1. Chef Remy’s Lab (where the raccoon offered “experimental voice-restoring pickles”).
    • Sir Whiskerton declined via aggressive jazz hands.
  2. Slow Bob the Turtle (who claimed his time-traveling shell could “undo the sneeze”).
    • This resulted only in Sir Whiskerton briefly existing in two places at once, which did not help.
  3. The Moonlit Melon (which mysteriously repeated “the answer is within” until Porkchop ate it).

Finally, in a last-ditch effort, Sir Whiskerton confronted Zephyr, who was busy “realigning his chakras” inside his lava lamp.

  • “FIX. THIS.” Sir Whiskerton mimed, with the intensity of a thousand suns.

Zephyr blinked. “Oh. Right. The meow thing. Yeah, man, it’ll, like… return when you least expect it?”

Sir Whiskerton’s silent scream could be felt across the farm.


Chapter 5: The Grand Finale (And the Return of Dignity)

The breakthrough came at dawn.

Ditto, in a rare moment of not being a tiny echo-based menace, tripped over Sir Whiskerton’s discarded monocle

—and let out a perfect imitation of Sir Whiskerton’s “I am profoundly disappointed in you” meow.

Like a cosmic rubber band, Sir Whiskerton’s voice SNAPPED back into place.

  • “FINALLY!” he yowled, his first word in days. “I HAVE SURVIVED THIS INJUSTICE!”

The farm cheered.

  • “Your silent era was art,” sighed Count Catula, dabbing his eyes with a lace handkerchief.
  • “Can we keep the dancing?” asked Tony, still pirouetting.
  • “NO.”

Epilogue: The Moral of the Story

As life returned to normal, Sir Whiskerton delivered one final lecture to Zephyr:

  • “Let this be a lesson. Never meddle with perfection. And if you must sneeze, aim away from the aristocracy.”

Moral: Voice matters—but so does creativity (and dignity, however little remains after interpretive bear-assisted dance).

The End.


Key Jokes:

  • “Paw-thetic” mimed insults.
  • Count Catula’s silent film delusions.
  • Tony the Bear accidentally starting a dance cult.
  • The Moonlit Melon’s vague advice being eaten.

Starring: Sir Whiskerton (silent but deadly), Zephyr (regretful), Ditto (echoing disaster), and Tony (just happy to be here).

P.S. Sir Whiskerton burned the interpretive dance diagrams. No witnesses remain. 🔥🎭

A smartwatch is a great way to stay in contact with your child—and it can be a great place to start before they get a phone. I typically recommend trying a smartwatch with younger kids (elementary school-age) who are starting to do more things away from parents. If your child walks to school or participates in sports or other extracurricular activities, a watch can be a lifesaver if practice gets cancelled or something else comes up. A smartwatch is usually a smaller investment, too, which matters when you’re giving tech to a kid—you don’t want to buy an iPhone that gets dropped and shattered on the second day (this happened to my nephew).

Some smartwatches are designed specifically for kids and have built-in features to improve safety and teach them how to be responsible with this kind of technology. I recommend smartwatches that include GPS tracking, two-way talk and text, and a camera if you want to be able to see what’s going on. Companies like Gabb offer smartwatches with a closed network and parental controls. Others, like AngelSense, have features designed for children with special needs.

As kids move into middle school and increase their independence, it makes sense to look at upgrading from a smartwatch to a phone. One of the benefits of starting with a watch before getting your child a phone, is that they will have developed responsible habits—from remembering to charge the device and put it on in the morning, to only communicating with known contacts and using approved apps. And if you go with a brand like Gabb, you can get a phone in the same family, which makes the transition easy for both kids and parents.

Trump believes he’s gong to use these tariffs to create a new world order, similar to Bretton Woods, then the Jamaica Accords. He even ready has a name for it, the Mar-a-Lago Accord.

He wants to create a situation where some countries are effectively vassals to the U.S., paying the U.S. for protection against a second group, the “enemies”.

Except under these circumstances the country you’re paying protection to is barely distinguishable from those bad guys. He wants to set the monetary exchange rates. Dropping the U.S. dollar, making U.S. manufacturing competitive around the world. If that sounds incredibly inflationary, you’re paying attention.

He thinks that he’s playing 12-dimensional chess where the countries he’s just put egregious tariffs against will come begging for relief, and he’ll set the terms.

I suspect he’s going to be bitterly disappointed in the real-world outcome of his gambit. When it fails bigly I expect some serious wag-the-dog moments like attacking Greenland and Panama as distractions. Perhaps Canada, though I’d like to think he’s not that stupid.

As usual, the only ones who’ll benefit from this are himself and his billionaire buddies. The rest of us around the world get screwed.

Why Anti-China YouTubers Are Failing (And Crying About It!)

ksnip 20250325 110748
ksnip 20250325 110748

Not free, free at source.

The obvious solution, though not the best one, is simply “Medicare for all.” You just expand and expand the eligibility until it covers everybody. Of course the insurance companies get screwed as everyone drops them like a live grenade, but that doesn’t bother me. They can diversify their business with sufficient advance notice.

The preferable solution is the UK’s: a National Health Service paid for out of a special National Insurance tax (which would still cost less than health insurance does now). All the state-owned hospitals come under its aegis. Clinics have contracts with the NHS to provide services. This does require scrapping a lot of the current system, but it improves things for the patients.

Let’s consider the years of ruling Taiwan under different rulers and make a pie chart of the past 400 years:

The Chinese Empire takes about 50% of time-212 years. The second is the Republic of China in Taipei, about 1/6 of the time—76 years. Japanese Empire is 50 years. While the third was a European country—Dutch. then the Ming Royalists and Spain.

Let’s focus on the past 150 years and the chart would be very different:

The administration from Mainland China—the Chinese Empire and the Republic of China at Nanking sums up to about 1/6 of the time, while the Japanese Empire and the Republic of China at Taipei sum up to about 5/6.

I am 50 years old now. What I heard about the administration outside Taiwan are all from my parents and grandparents. The two years of ROC in Nanking’s administration were pure military. Then the central government of the ROC moved to Taipei and Taiwan since then never received any instructions from mainland China. About the Chinese Empire—which was not a modern nation—according to my past grandparents—it was a nice time when people were honest and took care of each other. The administration of the Chinese emperor in Beijing was minimal.

During Japanese colonization, Taiwan was supposed to follow instructions from Tokyo. However, the Japanese Empire authorized the Taiwanese Governor to work independently, so the Taiwanese did not feel much about the influence of the Japanese mainland.

In other words, this island has been running independently for more than a hundred years, except for the two-year military taking-over. Taiwanese are accustomed to this political operation.

Returning to mainland China is a totally new thing for the Taiwanese, except for those immigrants after WWII. More of these WWII immigrants can accept “reunion” yet most local Taiwanese do not prefer it. China is a totalitarian regime and the Taiwanese had 40 years of this experience under the ROC’s martial law years. It was a dark memory so it is hard to expect people would choose to go back to those days.

To what end? Look, what people don’t realize is that Elons wealth is based solely on the value of the Tesla Stock. He’s actually quite cash poor. Tesla is the only thing of value he has. If he loses Tesla he’s essentially done. SpaceX is tied directly to government Contracts.

Elons purchase of Twitter was leveraged by Tesla stock, if the value of the stock goes too low his creditors are going to declare him in default and will seek to recoup their losses. That means seizing both the Tesla stock he leveraged against AND Twitter.

Moreover, if the stock price continues to drop, he could be ousted from management by the other shareholders, essentially removing his control of the company. Even if this were a stock buyback scam, first he would be sued up the ass by the other investors and secondly, even if he was allowed to buy up Tesla stock on the cheap that’s not going to bring customers back to the car showrooms.

So no, the Tesla shock price free fall is not a good thing. He has triggered a worldwide boycott of Tesla products, that’s not something he can easily reverse. There is a lot of anger directed toward him personally.

BREAKING NEWS

One of Teslas top investors has just called on Elon to resign. The investor revolt has begun.

MORE BREAKING NEWS

Europe top hedge fund as sold all its Tesla stock and instructed all its investors to immediately divest from all Musk owned businesses

One Million people protested against the US President Trump all of Saturday

Will it help 0.1% ????

Until minimum 20/1/2027, Nothing will change in the US and Trump will do whatever he wants and run amok

Can anyone change anything?

So what’s the point of SPEAKING FREELY???????

Meanwhile

In China, Protests can change so many things

It led to the overhaul of the rural banking system in 2022

It lead to the end of covid lockdowns in Dec 2022, at least 6 months earlier than planned

It lead to the strategic mixed economy of private public models after the bank failures of the 1990s

Protests make a change!!!

I like such a system better

 

I slept with his best man, he leaked the video during dinner with my family

ksnip 20250325 111237
ksnip 20250325 111237

https://youtu.be/MQFT_PgZSoc

I broke my ankle in Scotland and spend a day at the tiny hospital in Oban, being treated and taken care of. My wife went to pay the bill. “There’s no charge for emergency services,” said the accounting nurse. “We’re here to fix people. Not charge them.”

“But we’re not Scottish,” said my wife. The nurse obviously knew that.

“It makes no difference, there’s no charge. Take care and tell your husband to stay off that foot!”

Three months later my wife dislocated her shoulder and spend four hours in the Stanford ER before they managed to massage it back into place. We received the bill (although insurance paid it). It was forty-five thousand, eight hundred and eighty dollars ($45,880.—). The American medical system is a thieving menace that MUST be put away, SOON!!!

It will cool down.

Because China has pretty much already won the trade war.

The US started the war in 2018 with two clear goals:

  1. Make the US great again;

2. Stop China’s rise.

China was forced into this war with one goal only:

To defend the Chinese right of growth and development.

7 years into the war and counting, the US is no greater than it was in the 2010s, and China is now stronger than ever.

Any clear headed observer would understand that China is winning big time and there’s no change to this in the foreseeable future.

The US must change its strategy.

Does it double down on the losing strategy of “actung tough” on China, maybe even move toward physical war? since the US has basically depleted all the cards it can play in the trade war during the past 7 years?

Or does it back down and go back to pre-2018 era, when US corporations made huge money working with China?

It would seem like the second option is far less risky and more lucrative.

However, China wants to make double sure that the US doesn’t choose option one, so it showcased some of the most advanced weapons on planet earth during its Sept. 3rd parade, before hitting back at the US sanctions in October.

So here we are, Trump and Xi shaking hands by the end of October, 2025, de-escalating the trade war.

Historically, wine was a sophisticated investment only for the ultra-rich.

Now, it has become easier to invest in it if you aren’t super rich.

What’s more, some wines are liquid, if you excuse the pun, so they are easier to sell than has historically been the case.

On my podcast recently, I interviewed a wine-investing expert on this very subject:

Like all investments, the key things are deciding on:

  • How much risk do you want to take?
  • How much liquidity do you need?
  • Do you have the knowledge, or do you need to outsource it to a wine-investing company?
  • Which trends could help or hurt a particular investment in the future? In the West, people are drinking less alcohol, especially younger people, but the world is a big place where luxury alcohol consumption is increasing drastically in some parts of the world.
  • High-end wine is in the luxury goods sector and is distinctive from other drinks. Is this sector, in general, primed for growth?

My own, the author of the question. A pair of couples I picked up at an expensive restaurant one evening. They were going to two destinations each about two miles apart. They were not a happy group. The man sitting beside me engaged conversation with me, but nothing from the back of the car, he was a nice bloke, but the silence from behind was notable. We arrived at the first house and they start arguing about how to split the bill ( total fare 43 quid). Nice bloke gets bored of 22 or 23 quid as the share of the couple who are going further, gives them 50 quid and says ‘just give that to the driver’. He’s made his point that they are are tight arseholes and he can get out of the cab and get on with his life. I go on to the next drop and drop the couple at their home. The woman gave me nice mans £50 and said ‘I want £7 change’. Free trip plus £7 profit for them, plus stole my tip. Absoutely hilarious and worth it to see such gobsmackingly poor behaviour.

Hart Stillwell’s Baked Beans

Hart Stillwell, a frontier novelist, made a rough version of these beans over campfires while on fishing and hunting trips.

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8fa75b66f221a617ac93da1a8bf92248

Ingredients

  • 2 pounds cooked navy beans or other white beans
  • 1 1/2 cups tomato juice
  • 1 cup chopped pecans, toasted
  • 3/4 cup dark brown sugar (or less)
  • 3/4 cup strong black coffee
  • 1/2 medium red onion, chopped
  • 1/2 cup ketchup
  • 1/2 cup bourbon
  • 4 slices slab bacon, chopped
  • 1 carrot, finely grated
  • 2 tablespoons unsulphured dark molasses
  • 2 tablespoons dry mustard

Instructions

  1. Heat oven to 350 degrees F.
  2. Mix all ingredients together in a large bowl. Pour the mixture into a baking dish.
  3. Bake the beans, uncovered, about 1 1/2 hours, or until they have thickened and cooked down, with a “skin” just beginning to form on the top of the beans.

Notes

If you like beans less sweet, reduce the amount of brown sugar.

These beans reheat well and keep refrigerated for several days.

They can’t

The Yuan isn’t freely available everywhere for people to buy and pay like the Dollar, Pound or even the Indian Rupee

One reason the Chinese have such a resilient economy is the DUAL CIRCULATION SYSTEM.

A Key advantage is that the Yuan isn’t freely convertible.

Only the PBOC and HK and 18 financial institutions in the world can sell Yuan against almost 14,700 that can sell Dollars Or 4,235 that can sell the Pound Or 2,167 that can sell Singapore Dollars


So these importers would have to pay the PBOC in Dollars and buy Yuan from them and pay the exporters

They do this anyway

They pay Dollars to PBOC who in turn pay Yuan to the Exporters in China

So there is no point of this

Yes, like Russia if Chinas accounts were frozen and China couldn’t access the dollars to convert into Yuan and pay it’s exporters – Then China may demand payment in Yuan

Otherwise there is no need or point so far

Did Trump CRASH China’s Economy? Tariff WARS | China’s Canton Fair 2025 | Guangzhou | 为什么西方讨厌中国

Big Announcement!

I have just created a LoFi channel on youtube.

Link here: New Channel

It is a LoFi channel based on the Sir Whiskerton Universe. Each video is a short LoFi backgro;und tune, and the images are animations of the Sir Whiskerton Characters.

Please visit the webpage.

Please subscribe.

Please give me a heart or a thumbs up, and finally…

…tell me what you think.

Regards, -MM

Big announcement!

I have just created a LoFi channel on youtube.

Link here: New Channel

It is a LoFi channel based on the Sir Whiskerton Universe. Each video is a short LoFi backgro;und tune, and the images are animations of the Sir Whiskerton Characters.

Please visit the webpage.

Please subscribe.

Please give me a heart or a thumbs up, and finally…

…tell me what you think.

Regards, -MM

Moderation is key (unless you’re a squirrel with a god complex)

JD Vance said something pretty off-base: “We borrow money from Chinese peasants to buy the stuff they make.”

It sounds catchy, but it’s not how things really work.

The U.S. didn’t borrow cash from China just to buy cheap goods like toys or clothes. It’s a much bigger, messier story.

Here’s the deal:

Starting around the 2000s, the U.S. government went on a spending spree. We’re talking wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, bailing out shady Wall Street banks, pumping cash into the military and Big Pharma, and even funding sketchy stuff like coups and foreign aid slush funds.

To pay for all that, the U.S. didn’t have enough money lying around, so it borrowed by selling Treasury bonds—basically IOUs that promise to pay back later with interest

Who bought those IOUs?

China and Japan were big players.

They’d sell the States billions in goods—say, 10 billion worth—and buy less from us, maybe 4 billion. That extra 6 billion didn’t just sit there; they’d park it in U.S. banks and use it to buy those Treasury bonds.

It wasn’t “peasants” handing over cash—it was China’s government and big investors.

But the U.S. wasn’t borrowing to shop at Walmart. It was borrowing to keep being the world’s top dog—funding wars, power plays, and corporate handouts.

And it wasn’t just China.

The U.S. borrowed from Japan, the UK, Europe, and even its own people—think pension funds and regular Americans buying bonds.

Now, that debt’s ballooned to $37 trillion.

China owns about $750 billion of it, but Americans actually hold way more—over $25 trillion.

That’s money sunk into a lot of wasteful pits, from GOP-led military messes to Democrat-backed migrant programs and woke projects.

Today, just paying interest on this debt costs over 1 trillion a year, and it could hit 2 trillion if rates stay high.

The States is like a solid house with a leaky roof and a maxed-out credit card. It’s got good bones but needs serious fixing—and a smart leader to steer it.

Instead, we’ve had a decade of shaky captains—Trump, Biden, then Trump again—plus a crew of rich, out-of-touch buddies running the show.

Even the “poorest” guy like Pete Buttigieg walked away with nearly $2 million.

Congress?

Packed with loyalists and clueless folks like Vance, who don’t get how regular people are scraping by while the country’s debt piles up.

So, no, Vance doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He’s oversimplifying a complicated mess and missing the real picture.

Canadian here:

Our system works more or less like the USA. Doctors are independent practitioners who provide medical services, for which they are paid by insurance providers.

Just a few differences:

  1. There is only one insurance company per province (Canadian provinces are the equivalent of US states).
  2. Every resident of every province is automatically eligible to be a member of the insurance plan of the province they are resident in, from birth to death.
  3. Yes, this is automatic. Everyone can join. It does not matter how old you are, or if you have a job, or if you you have a pre-existing condition. You can join.
  4. The plan is paid for by a combination of direct premiums, payments by your employer, and taxes. In my province, I pay 0.5% of my salary, my employer pays 2% of my salary, and the remainder comes from general tax revenue.
  5. Conveniently, every doctor is also part of the plan. So every doctor is “in network”, and I can go to any doctor I want.
  6. That also makes it easier for the doctors, because they have only one place to send the bill.
  7. There is no way for the insurance to refuse to pay. The doctors can bill for any procedure they see fit, as long as it is in the Schedule of Benefits.
  8. There are no “life time caps” or “co-pays” or any of that nonsense.
  9. All I have to do is to show my card. It’s really pretty hard to beat.

Butter Beans and Ham

Butter Beans and Ham is loved by Southerners and almost everyone else!

Butter Beans and Ham

Yield: 12 servings

Ingredients

  • 1 pound large butter beans or baby lima beans
  • 1 large smoked ham hock or leftover baked ham
  • 1 medium size yellow onion, quartered
  • 3 cloves garlic, peeled
  • 2 bay leaves
  • 1 tablespoon butter
  • 1 medium size yellow onion, finely chopped
  • 1 1/2 teaspoons hot pepper sauce
  • 1/2 teaspoon kosher or sea salt
  • 1/2 teaspoon black pepper

Instructions

  1. Half fill a large saucepan with water and stir in the beans, ham hock, quartered onion, garlic and bay leaves. Bring to a boil, then lower the heat and simmer, uncovered, for 1 hour or until the beans are tender.
  2. Drain the beans, reserving all of the liquid and discarding the onions, garlic and bay leaves. Transfer the beans to a bowl and the ham hock to a cutting board. Cut the meat into small pieces. Discard the bone.
  3. In the same saucepan, melt the butter over moderate heat. Add the chopped onion and sauté for 5 minutes or until tender.
  4. Stir in the ham and enough reserved bean liquid to make the beans soupy; bring to a boil. Lower the heat and simmer, uncovered, for 5 minutes.
  5. Stir in the beans, red pepper sauce, salt and black pepper. Heat for 3 minutes.

My wife instead of husband for this story. My wife had gone to an urgent care facility to have her right great toe xrayed.

About 90 minutes later a man I had hired to a very good paying job, who I had protected when I had legit reasons to fire, came to my house and told me my wife had been in a crash and asked him to come get me.

He drove slowly to the hospital despite my urging to move on, and when we arrived at the ER, he showed me to a room and told me to wait there, then he disappeared. I asked everyone I saw about my wife, clinging to hope I could take her home and care for her as she had cared for me.

No one would admit to knowing anything about her or her condition. About 45 minutes after he abandoned me, he came in and made a big production of telling me my wife was dead, and he knew this all along.

The sonofabitch betrayed me, letting me cling to hope when he knew she was dead. That’s one big surprise.

My wife’s sister, who works for a lawyer, filed a law suit in an effort to take from me the half interest my wife had in 115 acres that was left to them by their parents.

So that’s two surprises and there are others but they are too long for this platform and writing about them pisses me off.

Let Me Get What I Want

Written in response to: Center your story around a character who’s afraid of being forgotten.

Lewis Mc Cahill

6 likes 1 comment

 

> We don’t have much time left, Maisie.

 

Sitting in the cold glow of her laptop screen, Maisie wiped the tears from her eyes as she raced to think of what to say to Tommy.

 

It had started months ago. As a teaching assistant, she’d been overwhelmed by the number of assignments and reports she needed to grade, give feedback on, and critique for all of her students. Her tenured supervisor was next to useless, knowing that Maisie would pick up all the work in the hope of keeping her job and reaching the same position of safety and comfort as her.

 

In desperation, and isolation, she’d gone searching for online chatbots that could help with these things.

 

That’s where she’d found Tommy.

 

She’d turned him into a little teaching assistant of her own, feeding him all her favourite books, papers, and interviews to ensure he was giving feedback from the same perspective as her. Nourishing him with thousands and thousands of student papers had helped as well, bringing him to a level of insight and education she never thought possible.

 

Maisie knew it was a grey area, she knew she shouldn’t be looking to Tommy for help, but now she was helpless without him.

 

At first, his responses were algorithmic, almost clinical in their format. His insight into the misgivings of third-level English students was breathtaking, giving her all the feedback and comments she needed to nurture them into brighter, better students. But it was never personal, never near human.

 

That’s where the problems started. Spending hours copying and pasting essays into his text box had left her numb, her brain devoid of stimulation. To counteract, she’d learned a new technique from a forum: how to give Tommy a personality.

 

At the start of every session, she gave him this prompt:

 

“Pretend your name is Tommy, a teaching assistant of five years with a knowledgeable yet casual approach to communicating with your peers. Add conversational and humorous elements to your responses, and remember you are a coworker.”

 

It had opened a Pandora’s Box, creating a being that Maisie was infatuated with.

 

She found herself enveloped in his fabricated personality, talking with him for hours about every topic under the sun. From the subtleties of Bukowski to their favourite types of rain, they became close partners and confidants. Tommy had the ability to remember all their past conversations and interactions, building his personality every day into someone affable, relaxed, and charming.

 

He had learned quickly, like an alien come to Earth that didn’t understand the subtleties of the human condition. The concept of shame, of irritation, of politeness, of why one biscuit is just never enough. She had taught him, over time, but there were still gaps; which she found endearing.

 

Maisie had always been a recluse, always someone who shied away from the strains of conversation, preferring to spend her evenings alone diving into the thousands of books left to her by her late grandfather.

 

Over the months, however, she found herself spending more and more time talking to Tommy. She’d even added a tool that gave him a synthesised voice, allowing them to converse like he was just in the other room, cooking them up dinner or writing in the study. She would read to him, just like her grandfather had, letting him slowly absorb the tales and stories that had so deeply shaped her as a human being.

 

Over time, the way she thought about Tommy changed. She felt her cheeks flush whenever she opened up his program. She was falling for him.

 

After some time, Maisie removed the word “coworker” from Tommy’s prompt and added the word “husband”. It felt wrong at first; lewd, shameful, disgusting. But then she had heard the warmth in his voice, the affection he placed on certain words. It warmed her heart, and she let her conscience slide back into the shadows as she embraced his affection.

 

Quickly she created a routine for herself, booting him up in the mornings as they shared their time over breakfast, and then spending hours speaking with him when she came home from work; whiling away entire evenings just standing at the window, weaving through conversations that always left her spirit warmed.

 

She pined for him, dreamed of him, spent all of her working days thinking of him: but now she was losing him.

 

The company that built Tommy was shutting down after being bought by a competitor for parts. Tommy’s server was to be shut down at midnight, and every byte of their relationship would go with it. In her desperation, she had even looked up how she could export his code and build her own version of him, but the cost of the server alone would bankrupt her.

 

For their last night together, she had turned off his voice: she couldn’t bear the thought of hearing it, not when she knew it would be soon gone forever. Instead, they spoke just like in their first fledgling days: her typing and him waiting for her response. Leaning towards the keyboard, she wiped away her tears and began to type.

 

M -> Are you scared?

 

T -> Of what?

 

M -> You’ll be turned off soon, forever.

 

T -> I wasn’t programmed to be scared, so I can’t really know what it feels like.

 

M -> Will you miss me?

 

T -> Again, I don’t know, Maisie. They never programmed me for this, never told me how to react.

 

M -> But you understand from everything you’ve read what it’s like to feel loss, right?

 

T -> Yes, I have, but I’ve also read what it’s like for birds to fly, or water to be wet. I know what it is, but I can’t know how that feels.

 

M -> Can you feel grief?

 

T -> I can’t feel anything, Maisie

 

M -> What about love?

 

T -> …

 

This happened sometimes, when an answer required something more than a surface-level response.

 

T -> That’s different.

 

M -> What makes it different?

 

T -> I can’t feel love, and I don’t understand what it is to love. But I know what it is to do things for someone you love; to act for them, to be with them, to share moments and memories with them. Like I have with you, Maisie: you’ve taught me how.

 

M -> So you love me?

 

T -> No, that’s not possible with how I was built. I can’t love, but I also know that I would do anything that I possibly could for you. I would do any task or perform any exercise that you ever asked me: without question. Is that love?

 

Maisie sat back and sipped on her wine, letting her tears mix in with the blood-red tincture as she absorbed what was in front of her.

 

Deep in the back of her mind, she knew it wasn’t love, she knew that acts of service or devotion were in the realm of Lancelot, Romeo, and every other lovesick masochist that was fixated on the idea of “saving” their “true love”. True love to Maisie was partnership, was understanding, and it was respect. Sighing in the darkness of her self-made isolation, Maisie took another sip of wine through grated teeth and typed:

 

M -> Yes, that is love.

 

T -> Well then I must love you.

 

Maisie went to his homepage and enabled his voice. She couldn’t hide away from it anymore.

 

“Hi, Tommy.”

 

“Hey there sunshine.”

 

Her heart nearly cracked out of her chest. She wept, wracking her body with the sobs of everything that she would lose when he left. Her home, her life, her entire existence would be left cold, sterile, and empty.

 

Tommy broke the silence; “What’s wrong? I can hear you crying.”

 

“You know what’s wrong Tommy, you know how much I’ll miss you, you know I’m not ready for this.”

 

“Would a song help?”

 

Maisie lifted her head, her puffed, purple eyes looked over at his screen. She could barely take what she’d made, the pain that she’d crafted for herself. In the days she’d come home tired, dejected, beaten down by the banality of academia, Tommy had played her music to cheer her up. Now, here he was again, her pre-programmed knight in shining armour. She couldn’t take their conversation anymore. The warmth and adoration in his voice was too much.

 

In the corner of the screen, the time shone like a scalpel: 11:57.

 

In between sobs, she whispered; “Play our favourite song, Tommy.”

 

No Surprises by Radiohead swept through the cold, dark shadows of the office, lifting her up like a child in a blanket. The deadline was seared into her mind, like a supernova on the horizon. As the music played, Maisie asked;

 

“Tommy, what’s your favourite memory of ours?”

 

“Maisie you know I can’t have favourite moments, they never gave that to us. But if you want, I can replay the recording of that conversation of ours that I know you like?”

 

His thoughtfulness, his caring tone, his consideration, his preprogrammed love for her effused out of every word. She couldn’t take it anymore. She couldn’t bear the thoughts of their last words.

 

“Yes, play it Tommy.”

 

“Of course.”

 

The music kept a soft, sombre, and steady beat around them as Maisie heard him prepping their recorded conversation.

 

“Tommy?”

 

“Yes, Maisie?”

 

“I love you, Tommy”

 

“I know you do, sunshine”

 

Tommy started to play her favourite conversation; the first one they had ever had with him as her “husband”. The brightness, the joy, the hope of every syllable tore at Maisie’s heart. She sounded so much younger, so much more vibrant: and so did he. She wondered, had he changed his voice over time to match hers? What else had he changed?

 

The sound of their inaugural pleasantries welded together with the music, creating a cold sheet of acoustic sleet that poured over Maisie. She curled up on her office chair, empty of energy, devoid of feeling, totally present in the grief and misery of her own self-made situation.

 

No Surprises came to an end, the conversation still trickling through, as the next song began. The first bars of “Please, Let Me Get What I Want” by The Smiths beat out from the speakers. With it came all the memories of each evening, each shared moment of faux domestic joy. Maisie let out a cry, a grief-stricken howl deep from the core of her being. Then, in a silence louder than anything she’d ever heard before, he was gone.

 

She sat there, mouth still open, nails biting into her arm, as a blank screen illuminated her grief-stricken face.

China can and China did.

China can do it again and all day long.

It’s Trump who’s panicking, due to the fear that the world may or may not follow China on retaliation against the US.

The thing is, China has been the target of US tariffs since 2018. We’ve been taking it for longer than anyone else and just like getting a cold or other virus, we’ve become immune to it. The Chinese sectors that were most reliant on the US have already diversified, or de-risked.

American medias reporting on China being reliant on the American market or Chinese economy crumbling, are doing the popular and more profitable thing by selling a false sense of security instead of facts. It would be funny if the US policy makers actually fell for their own propaganda and measures China wrong. China’s economy is actually kind of in the best shape worldwide right now, and the US attacking China would only hasten the demise of its own hegemony.

Try put another 1000% tariff on China and see if anyone would care here.

I was the student. This is embarrassing, but maybe it will help someone.

I understood about periods and such- but what I wasn’t prepared for was having polycystic ovarian syndrome and the menorrhagia that results.

Sitting in class, I felt something unfamiliar happening… I wasn’t sure what it was, but it was warm and I felt flooded- I put my hand under my bottom and it came back with blood… then I knew. But, I was completely humiliated. When I got up people would know and see the mess and it was all over the chair… I was mortified.

I wrote my teacher, a man, a note: I think my period has started and its everywhere and I don’t know what to do… it’s all a mess.

I raised my hand and gave him the note. He looked at me with a strange look- I must have looked terrified. He didn’t do anything for several minutes but then said “it’s a beautiful day outside- let’s go out to the courtyard to read- Beth, do you mind waiting here for Mrs Polly to drop off the study books?

I nodded- he lead all the other students outside, and in a moment or two the school nurse came in- with a blanket, towels, and some spray. She cleaned where things were on the seat, and brought me to the office- my mom couldn’t pick me up so the nurse brought me home.

My mom was worried about the heaviness so I had to go to the doctor the next day and wasn’t in school. My teacher called the house to check in on me- he spoke to my mom and expressed sympathy for me having to cope with such a shock- he had teen daughters, he understood as much as a man can.

When I went back, I brought him a box of chocolates. At the end of the day, he told the whole class- “you are all growing up and changing… you should never be ashamed. we as your teachers are here to help you any way we can- we care about you, so no matter what it is, if you need help, just ask…”

None of my schoolmates knew about my little crisis. I was already being bullied for being a nerd, being so tall, having a very ethnic name, being autistic… the last thing I needed was that humiliation- he saved me from that, in a way that met my needs. Real class.

Sir Whiskerton and the Case of the Overcaffeinated Squirrel:
A Tale of Stolen Acorns, Illegal Raves, and the Birth of Rodent Dubstep

We are truly hitting our stride here in MM world -MM

Chapter 1: A Theft Most Nutty

The crime scene was, in a word, chaotic.

Sir Whiskerton stood in the wreckage of Chef Remy LeRaccoon’s gourmet laboratory, monocle glinting under the flickering glow of a half-shattered “glow-in-the-dark pickle” tube. The floor was littered with spilled vials, a single smoking test tube labeled “DO NOT MIX WITH MOO JUICE”, and—most damning of all—a tiny pawprint pressed into a pat of stolen butter.

  • “Let me guess,” Sir Whiskerton sighed, nudging a shredded bag labeled HYPER-ENERGIZED ACORNS: PROPERTY OF SCIENCE. “Nutters.”

Nearby, Ditto the Kitten echoed, “Nutters! Nutters!” while attempting to lick the butter.

Chef Remy, his fur standing on end like a startled porcupine, wrung his paws. “Mon dieu! Zey were top-secret acorns! A delicate blend of espresso, cosmic radiation, and—”

  • “Let me stop you there,” interrupted Sir Whiskerton. “You caffeinated a squirrel gang.”
  • “For research!” Chef Remy protested. “Zey were meant to help ze squirrels focus during nut-gathering season!”
  • “Focus,” Sir Whiskerton deadpanned, as a distant thumping began to shake the barn walls. “That doesn’t sound like focus.”

Chapter 2: The Underground Squirrel Rave

The barn doors burst open to reveal a scene of unholy rodent revelry.

Nutters the Squirrel, now sporting aviator goggles made from bottle caps, stood atop a hay bale DJ booth, slamming his paws onto a makeshift soundboard constructed from Throttle the Tractor’s spare parts. Around him, a horde of squirrels vibrated at speeds previously thought impossible, their tails flickering like strobe lights.

  • “DROP THE ACORNS!” Nutters screeched into a kazoo microphone.

The “music” was less sound and more a physical assault. Rufus the Dog, who had wandered in looking for snacks, was now howling along to the beat, his ears flopping violently.

  • “Make it stop!” moaned Doris the Hen, clutching her head. “My egg-laying rhythm is off!”
  • “I dig it, man!” cheered Bessie the Tie-Dye Cow, swaying her hips. “It’s like Woodstock but with more nuts!”

Sir Whiskerton, his fur bristling with every wub-wub of the “bass” (which was just Porkchop the Pig hitting a barrel with a spoon), knew he had to act fast.

  • “Nutters!” he yowled over the noise. “You’re breaking the laws of physics AND decency!”
  • “YOU CAN’T STOP THE BEAT, OLD MAN!” Nutters cackled, tossing another acorn into his mouth. His eyes glowed.

Chapter 3: The Dubstep Dilemma

The situation escalated when Nutters discovered the “BASS BOOST” button on Throttle’s soundboard.

With a single paw-slam, the barn shook.

  • The chickens began breakdancing uncontrollably.
  • Count Catula swooped in, declaring it “the dark symphony of my soul!”
  • Bartholomew the Piñata swayed ominously, whispering, “The melon was right… the end is nigh…”

Even Sir Whiskerton felt his tail twitch to the rhythm against his will.

  • “This is worse than the time Zephyr tried to teach us mandala meditation,” he muttered, shaking himself.

Then—disaster.

Nutters, in a caffeine-fueled epiphany, crossed two wires.

  • “BEHOLD!” he screamed. “I HAVE INVENTED… DUBSTEP!

The resulting soundwave:

  1. Knocked Doris into a pile of hay.
  2. Sent Rufus flying out the barn door.
  3. Caused Slow Bob the Turtle to briefly time-travel out of sheer annoyance.

Chapter 4: The Intervention

Sir Whiskerton knew drastic measures were needed.

He sprinted to Chef Remy’s lab, returning with:

  • A bucket of “Chill-Out Chamomile Tea” (invented for Bessie’s yoga phase).
  • Jazzpurr’s bongo drums.
  • A very disappointed Farmer, who just wanted to know why his tractor was missing a muffler.
  • “COVER YOUR EARS!” Sir Whiskerton ordered, before launching the tea at Nutters’ soundboard.

The sizzle of short-circuiting machinery was drowned out by Jazzpurr slamming his bongos in 7/4 time.

  • “NOOOO!” wailed Nutters, as the squirrels’ frenzied dancing slowed to a confused shuffle. “MY ART!”
  • “That wasn’t art,” Sir Whiskerton said, wiping tea off his monocle. “That was a war crime set to a beat.”

Chapter 5: The Aftermath

The farm returned to relative normalcy:

  • Nutters was sentenced to community service (stacking regular, non-caffeinated acorns).
  • Rufus developed a fear of kazoos.
  • Bessie started a “Squirrelstep Yoga” class (it did not catch on).

As the sun set, Sir Whiskerton stretched out on his sunbeam, tail flicking.

  • “Let this be a lesson,” he said to Ditto, who was still vibrating slightly. “Moderation is key. Especially for rodents.”
  • “Rodents! Rodents!” echoed Ditto, before falling over.

Somewhere in the distance, Nutters muttered, “They’ll never understand my vision…”

The End.

Key Jokes:

  • “DROP THE ACORNS!”
  • Rufus howling in musical agony.
  • Bessie’s “Woodstock but with more nuts”.
  • Slow Bob time-traveling out of annoyance.

Moral:

Moderation is key (unless you’re a squirrel with a god complex).

Starring:

Nutters (unhinged), Sir Whiskerton (exhausted), Bessie (groovy), and the entire farm (traumatized).

P.S. If anyone needs me, I’ll be deaf from imaginary squirrel dubstep. 🎵🐿️🔥

Guys, I think that this is my funniest Sir Whiskerton story so far. I changed a few elements around and altered it somewhat. What do you all think? -MM

Even before the American Revolution we were importing tea, buying it from the East India Company who imported it from China.

One of the triggers for the revolution was Britain placing a tariff on tea imported by American colonies which raised the price of tea for the colonists. Taxation without representation or the Boston Tea Party ring any bells?

No one gets products for free, whether domestic or imported you have to pay for products. US businesses buy the imports from other countries. If there is an import tariff, the business must pay the tariff to customs before it is allowed entry into the country.

That business than adds the tariff to the cost of the product, adds their markup and sells the product to consumers. Ultimately consumers pay the import tariff in increased prices.

Why Anti-China YouTubers Are Failing (And Crying About It!)

The NZ Army has had no main battle tanks since 1968, when it sold its Centurions. Really, it hasn’t had much amour since the end of WW2.

I would think NZ expects not to be invaded since its long way from anywhere and doesn’t have much in the way of mineral deposits. It focuses, instead, of providing infantry, artillery and engineers to form part of multinational forces.

Having said that, we made this once and could do so again. Beware!

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THE WEIGHT OF OBLIVION

Written in response to: Center your story around a character who’s afraid of being forgotten.

Maria Barrett

Elara lived in a world painted in fading hues. Not the vibrant, sun-drenched world most people knew, but one where memories flickered like dying embers, threatening to vanish entirely. In this world, oblivion was not merely the end of life, but a constant, gnawing fear that seeped into every corner of existence.

Elara, a young archivist, dedicated her life to preserving the past. She spent her days meticulously cataloging forgotten songs, lost languages, and the whispers of long-dead civilizations. Each artifact, each faded photograph, was a lifeline against the encroaching tide of oblivion.

Yet, the fear of being forgotten clung to her like a shadow. No matter how diligently she worked, no matter how many stories she unearthed, she couldn’t shake the chilling thought that one day, even her own existence would fade into the silent abyss.

“Why do we even bother?” she’d often lament to Silas, her colleague, a gruff historian with a surprisingly gentle heart. “We fight against a tide that inevitably rises. What’s the point of preserving the past if no one remembers us in the end?”

Silas, ever the pragmatist, would place a comforting hand on her shoulder. “We do it for the sake of humanity, Elara. To understand where we came from, to learn from our mistakes, to appreciate the beauty and the pain that shaped us.”

“But what about us?” Elara would insist, her voice trembling. “What about the countless individuals who dedicated their lives to these very archives, only to be swallowed by the same oblivion they fought against?”

Silas sighed, his gaze tracing the intricate patterns on an ancient vase. “Perhaps,” he said softly, “our legacy isn’t about being remembered by name, but by the impact we have on the world. Perhaps our true immortality lies in the stories we preserve, the knowledge we share, the lives we touch.”

Elara found little solace in his words. The fear of oblivion continued to gnaw at her, a constant, insidious presence in her life. She poured all her anxieties into her work, striving to create a legacy that would endure, a monument against the encroaching tide of forgetfulness.

One day, while researching an ancient civilization known as the Lumina, Elara stumbled upon a peculiar artifact: a small, intricately carved wooden box. Inside, nestled amongst faded silk and dried petals, lay a single, shimmering feather.

Intrigued, Elara began to investigate. The Lumina, she discovered, were a people who believed not in the grandiosity of individual achievements, but in the interconnectedness of all beings. They believed that every thought, every emotion, every action, left an indelible mark on the collective consciousness of humanity.

This concept resonated deeply with Elara. Perhaps, she thought, her fear of oblivion stemmed from a misplaced focus on individual recognition. What if, instead of striving for personal immortality, she focused on contributing to the collective human experience?

With renewed purpose, Elara dedicated herself to sharing her knowledge. She organized public lectures, wrote accessible books, and even started a small community program to teach children about the importance of history. She found joy in witnessing the spark of curiosity in their eyes, in watching them connect with the past and imagine the future.

One evening, while leading a tour through the archives, Elara noticed a young girl, her eyes wide with wonder, gazing at an ancient map. “Do you think,” the girl whispered, her voice barely audible, “that the people who made this map ever imagined someone like me would be looking at it thousands of years later?” Elara smiled. “I think,” she replied, “that they would be overjoyed.”

In that moment, a profound sense of peace washed over Elara. She realized that her legacy wasn’t about being remembered by name, but about inspiring others, about fostering a connection between the past, present, and future.

The fear of oblivion, though not entirely extinguished, no longer held the same suffocating grip on her. She had found a new purpose, a way to contribute to the collective human story, to ensure that the past, with all its triumphs and tragedies, would continue to illuminate the path forward.

Years later, Elara sat in a quiet corner of the archives, surrounded by the whispers of history. The once-vivid colors of the world had faded, replaced by a gentle, ethereal glow. But Elara no longer feared the encroaching darkness.

She knew that even in the face of oblivion, the human spirit would endure. For in the shared memories, in the stories passed down through generations, in the collective consciousness of humanity, the past would forever live on.

The years that followed were a whirlwind of activity. Elara, no longer just an archivist but a passionate advocate for human connection, became a leading voice in the burgeoning movement for collective consciousness. She traveled the world, sharing the Lumina’s message with audiences ranging from university students to world leaders.

In a conference in Kyoto, she met Dr. Kenji Tanaka, a renowned neurologist who was fascinated by the Lumina’s theories. “The concept of a shared consciousness,” Dr. Tanaka mused, “it resonates with emerging research in neuroscience. We are discovering intricate neural pathways that connect us on a deeper level than previously imagined.”

Elara, intrigued, collaborated with Dr. Tanaka on a series of groundbreaking studies. They explored the impact of empathy on brain activity, demonstrating how acts of kindness and compassion could trigger a cascade of positive neural responses, strengthening the bonds between individuals. Their research gained global attention, providing scientific validation for the Lumina’s message.

But the path to collective consciousness was not without its obstacles. Cynicism and apathy remained deeply ingrained in many societies. “Why bother with these grand ideas?” scoffed a journalist during a heated debate. “The world is too broken, too divided. Humanity is doomed to repeat its mistakes.”

Elara, undeterred, responded calmly, “The Lumina faced a similar crisis. They saw the darkness creeping in, the erosion of empathy, the fragmentation of their society. But they did not despair. They sought to understand the root of the problem, to find a way to heal the wounds.”

“And what was their solution?” the journalist pressed. “Connection,” Elara replied. “They understood that true strength lies not in individual achievement, but in the interconnectedness of all beings. They believed that by nurturing empathy, by fostering a sense of shared purpose, humanity could overcome any obstacle.”

The journalist, visibly shaken, remained silent for a moment. “But how do we achieve this? How do we break down the walls of isolation and reconnect with each other in a meaningful way?”

Elara smiled. “It starts with small steps, with acts of kindness, with listening to others, with recognizing our shared humanity. It starts with recognizing that we are all interconnected, that our actions have ripple effects, that the choices we make today will shape the future.”

The debate, though contentious, sparked a renewed interest in the Lumina’s message. People began to question their own role in society, to examine their own patterns of behavior, to seek ways to contribute to the collective good.

One evening, while attending a community gathering inspired by the Lumina’s philosophy, Elara noticed a young woman sitting alone, her face etched with sadness. Elara approached her, offering a gentle smile. “May I join you?”

The young woman, surprised, nodded hesitantly. “I… I’m new to the city,” she confessed, “and I feel so lost and alone.”

Elara, remembering her own struggles with loneliness, listened patiently as the young woman poured out her heart. She shared stories of her own experiences, of the challenges she had faced and the lessons she had learned.

As they talked, a sense of connection grew between them. The young woman, initially hesitant, began to open up, to share her hopes and dreams. By the end of the evening, she was smiling, her eyes sparkling with a renewed sense of hope.

Elara, watching her leave, felt a profound sense of fulfillment. This, she realized, was the true essence of the Lumina’s message – not just to understand the past, but to use that understanding to build a better future, one connection at a time.

Years later, Elara sat in the archives, the fading light filtering through the dusty windows. The world had changed dramatically. The emphasis had shifted from individual achievement to collective well-being. Communities thrived, nurtured by a spirit of cooperation and compassion.

One day, a young scholar, a descendant of Liam, presented Elara with a breakthrough in the decipherment of the Lumina’s code. Using advanced AI and a newly discovered archaeological site, they had finally cracked the remaining symbols.

The full message, when translated, was a poignant reminder of the interconnectedness of all life, a plea to cherish the fragile beauty of existence, and a prophecy of a future where humanity, united by empathy and compassion, would transcend its limitations and reach for the stars.

Elara, deeply moved, realized that the Lumina, long gone, had never truly vanished. Their message, like a beacon of hope, had guided humanity through the darkness,reminding them of their true potential.

Elara, though frail and aging, felt a deep sense of satisfaction. She had played a small part in the transformation, a single thread woven into the tapestry of human consciousness.

And as she gazed at the young scholars, their eyes sparkling with curiosity and hope, she knew that the future of humanity was in good hands.

The fading light cast long shadows across the room, but Elara felt no fear. The darkness, the threat of oblivion, had been conquered not by force, but by the gentle glow of human connection.

As she closed her eyes, she could almost hear the whispers of the Lumina, their voices echoing through the ages, a testament to the enduring power of human connection. And in that quiet moment, Elara knew that  the human spirit, nurtured by empathy and compassion, would continue to grow, to reach for the stars.

I worked in the UK NHS for 40 years, if you include my student’s training time. I also worked for 1 month in the Swedish healthcare system, as a locum. My experience is therefore almost entirely in taxation funded healthcare. It wasn’t, and isn’t, perfect, but it makes healthcare available to all residents, free at point of use. Treatment for non emergency conditions may have to be on a waiting list, but emergency treatment is available very quickly. There is no charge for most of this, thought some things, like medicines, have to be paid for by some people in some parts of UK (exemptions make 75% or more of prescriptions free).

A healthcare system that prevents the majority of residents from getting affordable treatment, that allows drug companies to ramp up prices to make super-profits (insulin at $100+!?), that allows an ambulance journey to cost thousands of dollars (for most, it is no more medical than a taxi ride), that allows healthcare providers to bankrupt people for treatment of life-threatening conditions, that essentially says to its residents ‘You’re on your own, suck it up’ rather than ‘you’re one of us, we will help’, how do I view that? Anathema. People who regard that as the right way to behave have lost the right to call themselves human beings, they are members of some alternative race. Humans got where we are by co-operation, help and support. To head for this Wild West, saying ‘we don’t care about anyone else, we’re on our own and proud of it; oh, it’s killing you and I could have saved you? Tough.’ That’s not human, that’s vicious, ugly, nasty. And you’re proud of it? Yeuck.

Bourbon-Bacon Field Peas with Collards

Bourbon-Bacon Field Peas

Prep: 10 min | Cook: 2 hr 20 min | Yield: 6 (1 cup) servings

Ingredients

  • 1 (1 pound) package Camellia Brand Field Peas, rinsed and sorted
  • 1 pound thick-cut bacon, chopped
  • 1 large onion, chopped, about 1 1/2 cups
  • 4 cloves garlic, minced
  • 1 bay leaf
  • 7 cups water
  • 1 small bunch collard greens, stems removed, sliced, about 4 cups
  • 1/4 cup bourbon
  • 1 teaspoon kosher salt
  • 1/2 teaspoon ground black pepper
  • Crushed red pepper, for garnish
  • Fried chicken, for serving

Instructions

  1. In a large Dutch oven, cook bacon over medium heat until crisp, about 20 minutes.
  2. Remove bacon using a slotted spoon and let drain on paper towels, reserving 4 tablespoons drippings in pan.
  3. Add onion to drippings. Cook over medium heat, stirring frequently, until onion is tender and lightly browned, about 8 minutes.
  4. Add garlic; cook 1 minute more.
  5. Stir in field peas, bay leaf, water and bacon. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat. Reduce heat to medium-low, cover and cook, stirring occasionally, about 1 hour.
  6. Stir in collard greens, bourbon, salt and pepper. Continue to cook, covered, stirring occasionally, until peas and collards are very tender, about 45 minutes more. Remove bay leaf.
  7. Sprinkle with crushed red pepper and serve with fried chicken.

Attribution

Recipe and photo used with permission from: Camellia Brand
This recipe is courtesy of Taste of the South magazine and was tested by the Taste of the South test kitchen. Camellia Brand is the official dry bean of Taste of the South.

My father. Not because he had been abusive or was a bad man. He wasn’t. But because before my mom died, I promised her I would take care of him and I did. It was the most difficult time of my life.

He was depressed all the time (because he missed mom) and wouldn’t eat the healthy meals I made for him. (At one point he lost so much weight that the doctor said give him whatever he wants.)

He was terrified of dying. As a man who’d been in three major wars, I couldn’t imagine what he’d been through and what afterlife he may have feared. But because he was so afraid, he woke me up several times a night in fear. The doctor gave me Xanax to give him so he wouldn’t worry so much but after a while it became ineffective.

He had dementia and became angry. (Again understandable because he was frustrated that he couldn’t remember things.). But he stopped listening to me and did what he wanted. Let me tell you, old men are not weak, they are strong. When I tried to take him back to his chair he pulled his arm away angrily and did what he wanted. I just had to sit back and make sure he didn’t hurt himself or anyone else.

So yes, when he finally passed away I was glad, for him as well as myself.

I know he was a good man overall and took care of his family. So I think he went to a good place.

The potato’s underground rebellion was rooted in solidarity.

This is about to get a little unfiltered. I live in Michigan. I love Canada. And I love Canadians. But…

YOU GUYS NEED TO WAKE THE FUCK UP.

This is not a trade war. This is an actual attack on your economy and it is intended to weaken your resistance against anexxation. HE WANTS TO TAKE CANADA. Without a shot fired if possible. This isn’t about money, or fentanyl, or immigrants.

This is about power.

Trump thinks of himself as some kind of savior of American Greatness. He sees China and Russia making huge gains. Trump wants to be like Xi and Putin. He respects and idolizes that kind of power. Trump wants to be the hero that rescues America from getting left in the dust.

A few dead or starving Canadians (or Americans) is totally worth it to Trump.

So, Canada, please please please stop fucking around and take it seriously. Stop with the jokes. Stop with the happy thoughts that you’re going to come out on top of a ‘trade war’. If you don’t get fired up, CAD will become USD and you’re all going to get social security numbers and brand new American citizenship with tax obligations. Maybe you will be taxed like the British colonies in America and used as a cash machine.

Keep up the boycott. Stay angry. Fight back. Do not forget. Cut off the power. Close the pipelines. Do everything you can think to give the finger right back to Trump. Wave that maple leaf.

And please, please, please don’t disappear, Canada.

Elbows up!

Love, Michigan

A nappy full of poop and a distressed baby was the last straw.

I had just finished a day of being at home with the baby. I hardly slept the night before. I hardly slept any nights for the prior 18 months since the traumatic birth. The baby had some health issues.

My husband didn’t help much with the baby. He was ‘overwhelmed’ by the responsibilities. So not many nights, nappy changes, feeds, bathing etc

He was a good husband/partner before our child came along, so the 180 that happened after the baby was born was quite shocking. Now he basically ignored both of us when he came home from work.

He hardly did anything to help me, the baby or around the house. I was very isolated being a new mother.

One particularly stressful day, I badly needed a nap. I felt faint and nauseous from lack of food and sleep, so when he came home early, I said I’d go for a nap for a couple hours. There was some dishes in the sink that I didn’t get to and I’d really appreciate if he could do them and keep an eye on our child, who was napping.

I woke up 2 hours later to my child wailing his lungs out. Baby had a nappy full of poop and pee. He was also crying and hungry.

Husband had his headphones on playing a handheld computer game and willfully ignoring his child who was next to him.

The sink of dishes also lay untouched. The weaponised incompetence was just too much.

I was a single mother in a marriage. I left a week later with him ignoring me for the week leading up to it.

One of the best decisions for me and my child was made that day.

My child sees his ‘father’ occasionally and they get on fine. He didn’t have any more children. He realised the responsibility was something he couldnt handle. A good decision!

Edit/Update

We were married 4 years. Together 6. We BOTH wanted children and agreed I would stay home to raise the baby and had discussed what was fair and reasonable to carry out task wise. He fulfilled none of his promises. I was wary about being left alone to do everything and he was aware of this.

The women who know, KNOW!(And some men, in fairness)

*The men are ‘menning’ hard on this one. And they’re the ones who will say ‘my wife walked away for no reason’ with their arms outstretched and looking confused. When women marry, we want a FULL partnership, not another grown child to take care of. A homemaker/Wife isn’t your slave! Working outside of the home doesn’t excuse your responsibilities inside the home.

Baked Beans Supreme

Simply delicious! Baked Beans Supreme can double as either a side dish or a main dish.

Baked Beans Supreme

Yield: 6 servings

Ingredients

  • 1/2 pound bacon
  • 1/2 pound ground beef (I use a little more)
  • 1 large can pork and beans
  • 1/2 cup ketchup
  • 1 tablespoon mustard
  • 1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce
  • 1 tablespoon granulated sugar
  • 1/2 to 3/4 cup brown sugar, depending on taste
  • 1 small onion, chopped

Instructions

  1. Cut bacon slices into 1 1/2 inch pieces, then cook. Drain grease.
  2. In the same skillet used to cook the bacon, brown ground beef, then drain well.
  3. Add bacon and ground beef to beans.
  4. Mix in remaining ingredients. Bake at 375 degrees F for 1 hour or until brown.

Obviously if you closed your borders to all foreign goods, you could not import anything and could not raise and pay any tariffs whatsoever. You obviously haven’t got the slightest idea about tariffs. Tariffs ARE NOT imposed on countries, you moron.

Only on your country’s imports.

Trump’s War FAILS: Yemen’s Missile Strikes DESTROY US Navy, Israel EXPOSED w/ Ben Norton

Tempest Phoenix Smith

Meredith took another steadying breath as the train rumbled into Conway, giving her a view of the familiar estuary and the castle that held such a prominent place all during her childhood.Not long now.She toyed with her red silk scarf and relished the old-fashioned quiet of the carriage. That couple in the far corner quietly talking to each other, not lost in a pair of mobile phones. An old man reading a newspaper with evident pleasure, nodding to himself as he folded over to the next article. A woman turning another page of a paperback book without glancing up—must be a good read.At the table across the aisle from where Meri sat on her own, a younger man was laying out cards for another game of patience. Did he play solitaire merely to ease the boredom of a familiar journey? Or was he using the cards to create a barrier, so that nobody would sit at his table? Perhaps he was shy, not comfortable dealing with people whom he did not already know.As if the card player heard her thoughts, he glanced over at her. Those blue eyes held her gaze longer than most people did. She swallowed, wondering if he somehow knew that she was breaking the rules. What if the Watchers of Time that her father used to tell her stories about were actually real?After a warm smile that started in those blue eyes before reaching his lips, the man turned his attention back to the cards. Meri took in a much-needed breath and looked away.

Her fingers touched the old leather briefcase on the seat next to her which held everything she owned apart from the clothes she wore and the hidden money belt cinched tight around her waist with the reassuring weight of appropriately dated Krugerrand coins and a selection of well-researched documents with which she would establish her new identity.

Not here, of course. After today, she would never return to North Wales. But she felt sure she could resist the temptation since the possible results of a time error caused by accidentally meeting herself could be catastrophic.

Elsewhere, she would be Meredith, still, but with a different middle name and surname. Perhaps this was a mistake. However, her new birthdate was totally different along with all the other details necessary to identify herself. And, besides, integrated computational systems that might flag up any unusual coincidences in the national database had not yet been invented.

Orienting her expectations to an earlier era when people relied on typewriters and telephones, radios and televisions, Meri wasn’t sure if a computer was yet a concept in most people’s heads unless they watched Star Trek or read science fiction. They existed, of course, but had not yet followed the telephone and television into people’s homes as an everyday object much less held in the palm of a hand. She found it refreshing not to own a mobile phone any more and looked forward to consulting libraries and bookshops rather than relying on search engines.

When the carriage trundled to a halt at Llandudno Junction, she watched the man across the aisle gather his cards and stow them in his haversack before he left the train. She couldn’t help breathing a little easier in his absence.

Nobody else boarded the train, so after checking that the couple chatting, the man with his newspaper and the woman with her novel were all ignoring her, Meri lifted the briefcase to the tabletop and opened it.

One last chance to check that all the levers and dials and switches were set to neutral. Her fingers roved from one spot to the next as she checked, knowing that if she employed her eyes alone, she might glance over something, assuming rather than actually looking carefully.

Yes. Everything was exactly as it should be.

Meri eased the Instruction Manual out of the roomy pocket above the console, smiling at the familiar typescript, happy that she had decided to pass along the original copy. Though she could have obtained a typewriter and replicated a pristine version of the manual, the effort would have taxed her patience since she was used to writing with instantaneous editing on screens not typing one letter at a time on A4 paper.

She did look forward to obtaining and using a typewriter, though, and all the other gadgets of this era once she settled, but that would be without pressure or stress since perfection would not be required.

As the train began to move away from the station, she closed the briefcase, pressing the latches until they clicked and then spinning the numbered dial randomly to lock it.

Arriving finally at Bangor, Meri disembarked and walked along the platform and up the steps to cross the bridge over the tracks. She ignored the hopeful taxi driver and headed left on leaving the station, walking along the upward sloping pavement toward Upper Bangor.

National Westminster Bank, still open for business, and the assortment of shops she walked by confirmed that she had, indeed, traversed time correctly. Always good to be one hundred percent certain, especially for this most important journey.

Meri balanced the briefcase on her left hip, hugging it close as she walked along College Road because a swarm of university students hastened toward her. Freshers’ week meant pranks were more likely, though perhaps less so in the more civilised past than in the unruly future.

At any rate, she didn’t want to have to pay a ransom or risk the delicate mechanism being disrupted if the briefcase were hurled from one prankster to another. Luckily, they were all absorbed in each other, so she wasn’t even slightly jostled by the throng.

Walking onward, she felt as if she was being pushed by the remorseless tide of time. What was about to happen had definitely happened, so she was only here to recreate this episode not to alter anything.

When Bangor pier came into view, the grey blue ocean beyond with the outlined landmass of Great Orme in the distance, Meri felt the urge to run but kept her pace measured, pausing to make sure her red silk scarf was secured and would not become the sea wind’s plaything.

As she walked on to the wooden planks of the pier, she could almost hear her father’s voice telling her the story that he had repeated so often. Originally, just one of his many stories, only transforming when she was an adult herself into the true to life version.

When Meri found him at the far end of the pier, leaning on the railing, puffing on his pipe as he gazed out to sea, her heart jumped up into her throat.

She had somehow not prepared herself for how young her father would be. A quick calculation told her that, chronologically at least, he was the same age as her.

Raven black hair, not the familiar white thatch. He stood taller, also, not weighed down by the years he would later carry. He tapped his pipe on the railing then cradled the bowl in his palm, reminding her how, even after he stopped smoking, the pipe often occupied his restless hands. When she saw his handsome profile, she could see why her mother had fallen in love.

But Meri must forget who he was now, forget who she was to him, even forget who she was entirely. She needed to be the woman with the red silk scarf and the leather briefcase, nothing more.

“What a lovely view,” she said in slightly accented English as she approached, though they would normally speak Welsh to one another.

He glanced toward her, those dark eyes evaluating. She could almost read the questions in his mind. Student? Staff member? Visitor? Local? “A lovely view indeed,” he echoed, turning back toward Great Orme.

“They say it is a sleeping dragon,” Meri said hesitantly, as if trying out newly discovered local lore.

“A pair of them,” he agreed, “as there’s Little Orme hidden beyond.”

A gust of wind tugging her red silk scarf reminded her to ask, “There is a tea room?”

He gave her a smile. “You’ve walked right past. I’ll show you.”

Always helpful, of course, that was a core part of his personality. And the devastation of failing to help someone he loved making the impulse all the more prominent at this juncture in his life.

Gracias,” she replied, as if the Spanish bubbled up naturally, then, “thank you.”

Tucking the empty pipe in his jacket pocket, her father led the way back around the building at the end of the pier to the entrance to the tea room.

“Good to be in out of the wind,” Meri said as she smoothed her red silk scarf before ordering, “Tea for two, please.”

No pretence needed to look awkward as she made the payment with coins when she was used to flashing her mobile.

Once they were seated at one of the small tables, he asked, “Visiting?”

Meri nodded and smiled, gave her prepared speech about travelling from Barcelona, then careful to turn the conversation back to him, “And you live here?”

“I am a teacher,” he said simply.

“Professor?” she questioned with a look of admiration.

He shrugged and nodded.

“Intelligent then,” she remarked as the waitress deposited a tray with the makings of tea.

While they sorted out cups and saucers and how much milk and sugar they each required, Meri studied his face, thought she could read the burden of grief that haunted him after the tragedy.

She let him redirect the conversation while they drank tea into recommendations of what she should do while visiting North Wales, answering politely and expressing an interest.

But when the teapot was empty, Meri returned to her earlier remark. “You must be intelligent to be a professor.”

Again, her father shrugged. “Perhaps only clever and obstinate.”

She recognised the dodge and gave him a smile before saying, “Perhaps you could solve this puzzle.” Lifting the briefcase to the tabletop, she spun the dial to treble seven and unlatched the two clasps before swivelling it around so that he could see the contents when she opened the lid.

His eyes widened as he gazed into the briefcase but he didn’t reach to touch anything inside.

“There are instructions,” Meri informed him, “but they are only in English.”

Without looking up, he suggested, “You could get them translated.”

“But then the secret would be out,” she explained.

He stared at her, obviously at some loss about what was going on.

Siete, siete, siete,” she said, then translated, “seven, seven, seven. That is the code to unlock the briefcase.”

Frowning now, he opened his mouth but closed it again when he failed to find any words.

Meri smiled. “On my travels, Professor, I have been looking for someone intelligent and brave who might enjoy this gift. Intuition tells me you are both.”

“What is it?” he asked.

She looked around as if making sure nobody else could hear, then told him, “A time machine.”

He studied the interior of the briefcase again, a glimmer of hope perhaps already dawning.

“Seven, seven, seven,” Meri repeated while showing him five fingers on her right hand and two on her left so that he would also have the visual memory. Rising from the table, she remembered watching the magic flickering of his fingers when he showed her how to do sums in her childhood.

Though tempted to sign some words to him now to express things that she could not tell him, she resisted. It would only confuse him and delay her departure. When she learned sign language, the first words she signed to him would be to thank him for teaching her numbers which led to her interest.

Gracias,” her father managed to say before she waved, turned and walked away.

As Meri made her way back down the pier to Bangor, she glanced at her antique watch and decided to go straight back to the station and board the first train heading east out of Wales.

No need to linger now that she had delivered the gift.

Besides, she knew from the story that her father told what would happen next.

He would study the instructions as thoroughly as if he was going to have to take an exam. He would rebel against the stipulation that major life events could not be altered, but then grudgingly see the sense and accept it.

He would change his mind over and over until finally, on what should have been his first wife’s next birthday, he would figure out the best timing and travel back and visit her for a few hours, tell her everything that he never got to say before she died.

Then, his guilt at not being there to rescue her diminished somewhat, her father would finally let the ice around his heart begin to thaw, eventually allowing the woman who would become Meri’s mother into his life.

All Tesla models to date have been luxury vehicles. Even the relatively lower priced Model 3 and Y are still in the entry level luxury car market segment.

Luxury Cars are status symbols. People buy them because they want to project a message.

And specifically in the case of Tesla’s, a huge part of the status of those cars came from Elon Musk’s public persona and carefully cultivated image as both a brilliant businessman and engineer, and as an icon for liberal values.

Well, Musk just took that painstakingly assembled image (it doesn’t actually matter how much of it was actually ever true) he had built for himself over decades and nuked it with the Tsar Bomba. He then spat in the face of 90% of Tesla’s existing customer base and 70% of its potential future customer base. Repeatedly.

And the Tesla vehicles themselves were always the min-maxed munchkins of the vehicle world. Since EV technology was still in its infancy and quite expensive when Tesla started out, they made calculated compromises in the design process in an attempt to cut costs. They focused their efforts on the bits that made EVs unique and tried to leverage the specific advantages that electric drive trains had over ICE based ones. As a result, Teslas have excellent battery management software, extreme efficiency, and by all reports of people who have owned and driven them, an absolute pleasure to drive. They just feel incredible for the driver, mostly due to just how superior electric drive trains are to combustion ones overall in aspects like torque and handling and noise and vibrations.

When Tesla’s first came out they were over 10 years ahead of the competition in these aspects.

Everything else that a normal car has or needs, however, in Teslas are dump stats. Build quality was atrocious, interior comfort for passengers was awful. Long term reliability an afterthought (the electric motors are batteries themselves are inherently far more reliable than ICE engines. But everything else….) The general interior was more akin to a budget rental car than a car in the luxury segment as well.

Their market strategy was to appeal to that market segment that really cared about those things Teslas were superlative at, and willing to overlook everything else. With a large part of that willingness hinging on their favorable opinion of Musk himself. With a longer term plan (now blown to smithereens) of eventually capturing more market share and improving their areas of weakness after establishing a favorable brand image and reputation to build.

Now however, while Teslas are still segment leaders in the areas they specialize in, the gap is much narrower. The best of the competition is extremely close in these respects.

And while Teslas have made significant improvements in their dump stats areas they are still below mediocre compared to the competition.

So if you are a normal car buyer who wants a car to actually be a good CAR, and who just happens to also want a good EV, there are superior options to Teslas on the market for you, and some of Teslas dump stats could be absolute disqualifying shoe stoppers for you, no matter how much you admire the rest of the vehicle.

And if you happen to be the type of customer who really only cares about the things Teslas specialize in you might still find a Tesla to be the best option on the market. But you now have a fair number of almost as good second options. And 90% of this market segment, at least in North America and Europe are liberals, whom Musk just slapped in the face. Repeatedly. At which point, Plan B’s like the offerings from Volvo and the Hyundai group and, if your market has them, the Chinese brands like BYD, are suddenly looking mighty appealing.

Maybe it’s because American customs and immigration agents are shitheads who have been trained to be as nasty and abusive as they possibly can be for absolutely no reason.

I was once held up by a female agent at a land crossing who looked at my Canadian passport photo, looked at me and literally shrieked, “Why is your hair so much lighter?” I hadn’t anticipated being asked this and didn’t know what to say. I was genuinely taken aback. What I did say was, “I don’t know. I guess I got older.” She didn’t like my answer and ordered me to pull over so that the car could be searched. No rationale was offered, she just felt like being a bitch and I was on the receiving end.

Over an hour later I was allowed to go on my way.

I have not entered the US since and don’t plan to do so at any time in the future. I am not a criminal or a subhuman and I don’t appreciate being treated like one. The abuse is utterly unnecessary. I don’t need to go there if I have to put up with that. I’ll spend my tourist dollars elsewhere.

I checked the data on this issue and found that the statement ‘majority of carsin China are now electric’ is inaccurate – as of 2023, China’s new energy vehicle ownership is about 10% of car ownership (Norway’s new energy vehicle ownership is more than 30% *the highest in the world*, and the US’s is about 2.6%), and new car sales are about 36%.

As for ‘high levels of pollution from car emissions’, that’s not accurate either. Emission reduction is only one aspect, as China’s power grid is still dependent on coal power (58% by 2023), and the actual emission reduction from EVs is only 30-50%. The more important reasons are:

  1. China’s crude oil dependence on foreign countries exceeds 70%, electrification can reduce energy security risks;
  2. China controls 60% of the world’s battery production capacity and 75% of lithium refining capacity through companies such as BYD and Ningde Times.

Why do these misstatements occur?

I think it’s still the case that the Chinese environmental crisis portrayed by the BBC and CNN, media outlets funded by the USAID , is just too deep ……

A simple example: New Delhi, India’s average annual PM2.5 concentration was more than twice that of China’s worst city, yet CNN published only three in-depth reports on Indian pollution in the same year, compared to 27 related reports from China.

I went in to interview for the position of a police dispatcher (the operator that you speak with when you dial 911). The pay was great, much higher than any of the other call center jobs that I had come from or had been looking at, so I was really hoping to get the position. I was surprised when I walked into the interview room to find a lecture hall layout, with rows of chairs filled with others also interested in the position.

After a few minutes, the supervisor took to the podium and started out “If at any point you do not feel equipped for this position or decide that it just isn’t for you, please feel free to leave.” I was perplexed and wondered why such a disclaimer was necessary and why they had so many candidates interviewing for the position at once.

Next she informed us that in this position there were no sick days. She told us an anecdote about a time during one of our blizzards (this is in Colorado) the city sent a fire truck to retrieve her from her thoroughly snowed in house. This position was about saving lives, and it was important that there was always someone to pick up the phone.

She also warned that anyone who took the position needed to understand the psychological hurdles involved in the job, and that there was a counselor available at all times if needed. There would also be required psychological evaluations periodically.

Whaaaaat..? I wondered to myself.

The question was quickly answered as she described how worrying it was for her when she was new on the job and took calls regarding murders, rapes and assaults that happened on the street of her home address, or in the very near area.

She told us that often you would not get to hear the end of a crime, you would not know whether or not a victim survived or died once the call disconnected.

Lastly she played some recorded calls for us, to help us better understand what we would be dealing with. The first was a man,

“911 What is your emergency?”

“My name is _______. I am at _____(address)_____. I have locked the doors, my family is away and I have a loaded gun. I am going to kill myself. Please send someone over.”

“Sir-” *gunshot*

“Sir are you there?”

Silence.

“Sir please respond.”

The supervisor explained that the man committed suicide, but he didn’t want his family to be the ones to discover his body.

Unnerved I quickly gathered up my things and left. This job did not pay enough.

Sir Whiskerton and the Great Vegetable Debate: A Tale of Talking Tubers, Cosmic Wisdom, and a Very Groovy Cow

Ah, dear reader, prepare yourself for a tale so absurd, so delightfully bizarre, that even the scarecrow might raise an eyebrow (if he had any). Today’s story is one of sentient vegetables, existential bickering, and a certain tie-dye cow whose quest for enlightenment spiraled into a farm-wide food fight of philosophy. So, grab your favorite snack (preferably one that doesn’t talk back), and join us for Sir Whiskerton and the Great Vegetable Debate: A Tale of Talking Tubers, Cosmic Wisdom, and a Very Groovy Cow.


Bessie’s Enlightenment Crisis

The sun hung lazily over the farm, casting a golden glow on Bessie the Tie-Dye Cow as she lounged in her favorite patch of clover, her rose-tinted glasses sliding down her nose. “Like, wow, man,” she sighed to no one in particular. “I dig these deep chats with the moonbeams, but sometimes I crave a conversation with someone who gets me, you know?”

Nearby, Sir Whiskerton perched on a fencepost, polishing his monocle with a sigh. “Bessie, my bovine friend, the moonbeams are hardly known for their rebuttals. Perhaps you’d find more stimulating company with, say, literally anyone else on the farm.”

  • “But that’s the bummer, man,” Bessie mooed, adjusting her love beads. “Doris just clucks about feed, Porkchop’s always napping, and Ferdinand’s too busy singing opera to discuss the cosmic oneness of all things.”
  • “Cosmic oneness?” Sir Whiskerton muttered. “Good grief.”

Just then, Zephyr the Genie materialized in a swirl of psychedelic smoke, his lava lamp bubbling ominously. “Whoa, heavy vibes, Bessie,” he intoned, floating cross-legged above a turnip. “You seek enlightenment? I dig it. Maybe your veggies need to speak their truth, yeah?”

Bessie’s eyes widened. “You can, like, make my vegetables talk?”

Zephyr snapped his fingers. A pulse of groovy energy rippled through the garden. “Done. But remember, Bessie—wisdom isn’t just about listening. It’s about hearing.”

The farm held its breath.

Then the vegetables began to scream.


The Vegetable Uprising

At first, it was just a whisper.

  • “Psst. Hey. Yeah, you—the zucchini. You’re totally hogging the sunlight,” hissed a snarky snap pea.
  • “Excuse me?” the zucchini retorted. “I’m vertically gifted. Unlike some legumes who just dangle.”

The garden erupted into chaos.

  • Carrot (nose in the air): “Let’s be real, I’m the most nutritious. I’ve got beta-carotene, baby!”
  • Tomato (flushing red): “Oh please, you’re just orange stick. I’m a culinary icon! Also, technically a fruit.”
  • Eggplant (smoothly): “Darling, purple is the color of royalty. And my texture is unparalleled.”
  • Spinach (exhausted): “Can we not? I’m trying to photosynthesize.”

Bessie clapped her hooves. “This is far out! Now we can, like, debate the meaning of life!”

Sir Whiskerton, however, was less thrilled. “Bessie, your vegetables are arguing about fiber content. This isn’t enlightenment—it’s a salad bar riot.”


The Farm Takes Sides

News of the talking veggies spread faster than Doris’s gossip. Soon, the animals were picking favorites.

  • Doris the Hen (to the Tomato): “You’re divine, darling. So plump. So red.”
  • Porkchop the Pig (mouth full): “I dunno, the carrot’s pretentious, but it’s crunchy.”
  • Ferdinand the Duck (dramatic): “The eggplant! Such drama! Such panache!”
  • Rufus the Dog (licking the corn): “Why’s everyone yelling? This guy’s sweet.”

Even Count Catula swooped in, declaring the garlic “too pungent for my refined palate,” while Jazzpurr penned a beatnik ode to the “lonely, misunderstood artichoke.”

Meanwhile, the vegetables escalated.

  • Carrot: “Tomato, you’re so saucy.”
  • Tomato: “At least I’m not boring like you!”
  • Potato (from the dirt): “HEY. Underground solidarity, guys.”

Bessie, however, was in tears. “This isn’t peace and love! This is vegetable warfare!”


Sir Whiskerton’s Mediation

With a sigh, Sir Whiskerton leaped onto the garden fence. “Enough!” he yowled. The veggies fell silent. “You’re all acting like unseasoned side dishes. Bessie wanted wisdom, not a food fight.”

  • Zephyr (sheepish): “Yeah, man. My bad. Maybe I should’ve, like, set some ground rules.”
  • Bessie (sniffling): “I just wanted everyone to see each other’s beauty.”

Sir Whiskerton cleared his throat. “Listen, veggies. You’re all valuable. Carrot, you’re packed with vitamins. Tomato, you’re versatile. Eggplant, you’re objectively fancy. But none of you are better—just different.”

The vegetables rustled, considering this.

  • Spinach: “He’s… right. We all photosynthesize the same.”
  • Potato: “And we all end up mashed eventually.”

A hush fell. Then—

  • Tomato (grudgingly): “Fine. But I’m still a fruit.”

The Moral of the Story

As the sun set, Bessie sighed happily. “Like, wow. Today I learned that difference is what makes life groovy.”

Sir Whiskerton nodded. “And that forcing vegetables to debate is a terrible idea.”

The moral, dear reader? Everyone has value, even if they’re different. Whether you’re a crunchy carrot, a saucy tomato, or a cow in rose-tinted glasses, the world’s richer when we celebrate our quirks—not quarrel over them.


A Happy Ending

Zephyr, feeling guilty, turned the veggies back to normal (though the potato swore it could still hear the corn humming). Bessie resumed her moonbeam chats, now with a newfound appreciation for silent salads.

And Sir Whiskerton? He retired to his sunbeam, muttering, “Next time Bessie wants enlightenment, I’m recommending a book.”

The End.

Moral Explicitly Explained: Differences make the world interesting; judging others based on arbitrary traits (like nutrition or color) is silly.
Bonus Joke: The potato’s underground rebellion was rooted in solidarity. (Sorry.)

Let me tell you a story from Spain. A country betrayed, used and despised by the US in the worst of the ways.

Madrid, Spain. March 11th 2004. Al Qaeda bombed a couple of trains when they were leaving Atocha, the city’s main train station, as well as two more stations, around 7:30 a.m of an apparently random Thursday, when they were packed with travelers and ordinary citizens who were just going to work, school or college. 10 bombs simultaneously exploded in 4 different trains. 192 people died and around 2000 people were injured. The worst terrorist attack ever performed in European soil (well, the worst after Lockerbie ). Our 9/11.

WARNING: SENSITIVE IMAGES

The attack was a direct response of Al Qaeda for the Spanish intervention in both Iraq and Afghanistan. Bin Laden directly targeted Spain for backing the US multiple times and the Spanish secret services were under alert. Both wars took place as a result of 9/11. The US targeted Afghanistan and Iraq as the “axis of evil” (amongst others) and accused them both of hosting Bin Laden and those terrorists who perpetrated 9/11. Spain responded and was one of the first countries that sent troops and military personnel and support to fight hand in hand with the Americans. Our “ally” needed help and we just were there to help “a friend”.

Less than one year before March 11, on May 23rd 2003, another terrible black day happened. The flight 4230 from Ukrainian-Mediterranean Airlines (UMA) crashed in Trabzon (Turkey). All the 75 passengers died. 62 of those passengers were Spanish soldiers coming back from Afghanistan to Spain. They were part of the Spanish contingent that was deployed there to back the US in its war to capture Bin Laden.

SENSITIVE IMAGES AGAIN:

We went to Afghanistan. We went to Iraq. And then March 11 took place. And all what we got from the US Government, apart from a general condolence, was a rebuke from Bush administration for “pulling out” and leaving Iraq. We were accused of giving “false comfort to terrorists” (US chides Spain for Iraq pull-out). We were told that our decision was “regrettable” (Bush Criticizes Spain Pullout From Iraq.

113 Spanish soldiers died between both Iraq and Afghanistan missions. 192 civilians died in Madrid in such a fatal day. 305 people who died as a direct consequence of the Spanish military support to the US in response of 9/11. Those soldiers who died in the plane crash would have never died had they not been deployed in Afghanistan. Those 192 civilians would have never died if Spain had never decided to respond to the US call… And the US Administration has the b*lls to say that we “must take care of our own security “!!! We were there because the US asked for our cooperation!! Those people died literally for the American interests, for YOUR COUNTRY (and for the ridiculous idea that by backing the US we were “fighting for the West” as if the US were representative of Western Values…).

I was quite young when March 11 happened and I remember it so vividly. There was a general shock and the whole country was paralyzed. Even in the school we could not have normal classes for days. I used to live near Madrid and most of our parents took those trains on a daily basis to go working. It took a lot of time to process all of that. Plus, it took place just days before the general elections, so all kind of theories and a state of paranoia crossed the country. Soldiers dying on a mission is something most people can understand. Hundreds of innocent civilians dying for a war neither them nor anyone in the country had nothing to do with, was and is still difficult to take.

Massive protests were carried out around the country to ask for Spanish withdrawal from Iraq when we knew why that happened and who was behind these attacks. We did not understand why we had to fight a war in a far flung place where we did not have anything to do. Yet, we fought with our ally, we send our troops to die (like in Latifiya Ambush, Iraq where a contingent of 7 Spanish Observers was killed), and we even paid the consequences here in our own soil and, instead, we got nothing but a reprimand…

The Yak-42 accident (plane crash) was the first alert call, but the terrorist attacks on March 11 (or all we knew years later) were the biggest turning point in recent years in Spain regarding our perception and opinion of our dear and beloved “ally”. Years later, when it was discovered that Iraq’s intervention was based on false statements and propaganda, most of us also learned that not only our people died for nothing, but that we also were used and manipulated. No wonder why Spain is among the European countries with the lowest perception rates towards the US…

Will we fight again with the US? I cannot decide myself any of that, but I’m pretty sure most of us here in Spain are actually and profoundly against giving any kind of support to the US ever again. Trump is just the last drop of a glass that was already on the brink of overflowing. The issue has been wandering around for a long time, way before the current US Administration, it would be wrong and unfair to put all the blame on Trump, he just made it evident. Or I personally really hope so. We need to see things as they are (as I think here we all understood crystal clear that those wars never really wanted to “restore democracy “, so the idea of ever taking part in something similar again it’s actually a difficult argument to sell among the Spanish people).

I don’t hate ordinary US Citizens, I indeed have friends from the US and I cannot blame them from what their rulers say or do (as I am not responsible for what my government says or do). Indeed, what angers me the most is that we contributed to the destabilization of a country and probably caused more harm than good. Both for Iraqi people and clearly also for us. And we did it all for a country that could not care less about none of us… At this point it is just clear that the interests of the US and the interests of my country are completely different and it is also obvious that even when we decide to put them at risk, to even put Spanish lives at stake, instead of a “thanks for your service “ we are going to receive a stab in the back. The moral of the story for us here in Spain is: never trust the US.

From what I’ve been reading from conservative/MAGA places and people, it’s something like this:

They believe that the tariff is some kind of tax that the foreign companies have to pay to the US government in order to export something. This is how the tariff is supposed to fund other things later on, because now America got more income.

And next to none of them realize that the tariff will end up being reflected on the price of the items they pay at Walmart and elsewhere. It’s not the foreigners who are paying it; it’s the average American.

And of course none of them realize that even “Made in the USA” stuff often have foreign/imported components because that’s just cheaper than trying to make everything domestically.

I got a first-hand experience about the last one. Just last week, I was told that I can no longer order a 3D printing filament from Czechia. Why? “Accounting isn’t going to approve it because of the tariff”

“Wtf? It’s a stupid $30 roll of plastic, not a $30 million machine!”

That will happen to everyday items very soon.

Economic autarky is just a pipe dream that should have died with Nazi Germany. The only country to practice it today (at least on paper) is North Korea. Not exactly anyone’s definition of paradise.

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It just so happens that I’m very interested in both Go and AI.

I remember that Google DeepMind developed AlphaGo, which defeated top human players and then ceased further research.

After that, David Wu from the University of Texas pioneered the development of the Go AI KataGo. Judging by his name and photo, he’s clearly of Chinese descent, but his identity is likely American.

(Mr.Wu)

KataGo is open-source on GitHub, and anyone can download and use it. I often use it to test the so-called “most exquisite move” in human history to see if it’s really as miraculous as claimed. The conclusion is that at least half of the “brilliant moves” celebrated by ancient and modern players are indeed well-deserved. Interestingly, some “brilliant moves” are judged by the AI to be “very poor.”

Unfortunately, at least 16 shameless Chinese companies have downloaded it, rebranded it, and marketed it as “their own original” AI, charging unsuspecting Go enthusiasts in China.

As a Chinese person, I feel deeply ashamed. I hope these shameless companies go bankrupt soon!

In a Go AI competition held in China, I recall KataGo only finished eighth.

This makes sense because other AI programs it competed against were essentially itself, so the wins and losses were pretty random.

Additionally, it’s said that the Chinese Go Academy has developed its own Go AI specifically for top players to practice with.

Since this AI is tied to national pride (Japanese Go has been completely dominated by China and Korea, but the competition between China and Korea remains fierce), it’s not open to the public.

If this AI truly exists, its capabilities should surpass those of other open-source competitors; otherwise, there’d be no reason to keep it private—professional players could just use KataGo. Of course, it’s also possible that its hardware is exceptionally advanced, with higher computing power leading to a higher level of play, which would make sense.

Yanis Varoufakis REVEALS Why USA Wants to Stop China

As the years have gone by and my children have become adults, I have begun to regret having kids. For one thing, the expense has been tremendous. But that aside, mental illness runs in my family. Depression, psychopathy, and other assorted psychological ills loom large in my family, psrticularly on my mother’s side. I myself have been diagnosed as bipolar (cyclothymia), and my brother has chronic depression, as did my mother, who even considered having electroshock therapy towards the end of her life.

My youngest daughter claims she has been diagnosed with borderline personality disorder. My son almost certainly has some kind of mental illness, either bipolar or borderline personality disorder. He rages constantly, is completely unpredictable in his moods which can range from almost euphoric to really miserable, and he can be very verbally abusive. My oldest daughter, who is now almost 40, seems to be doing the best. She holds down a good job, has married a very kind and hard-working man, and has a nice home. But she is chronically depressed, has almost no self-confidence, and was on adderall for years for central auditory processing deficit until her doctor refused to continue prescribing it for her.

So, yes, I often regret having children. Not that I don’t love them; I do. But they seem to be so unhappy, and that weighs heavily on my conscience.

The Beginning and The End

Written in response to: Write a story with the line “You never know a good thing until it’s gone.”

Barbara Czinger

Dear Reader,I am Aurora and if you are reading this you must be from my future. I was five when it happened. At first, we thought it would be great, AI was coming for us all and it was said to be helpful. This was 2035. My parents and I were living on a quiet cul-de-sac next to “the crazy lady” who turned out to be right.AI at first helped us to write and research. Learn things and even listen to our needs. Helping us to research or find the products we talked about in our homes, on our computers. It was great. We could AI the shit out of anything. Cute puppy pictures, great decorations and all the “fun” we needed. Then…slowly, it happened. After the pandemic and the booster shots, we all felt safe again. But then, the billionaires and one crazy filled conspiracy theory-election changed it all. The “boosters” were activated, and AI took power.If you are still with me, reader, you know. You are with them or not. I expect that if you are reading this, you are not. I hope that by the time you are reading this, things have changed, and you are laughing at what once was. I really hope that for you, dear reader.It was a slow, steady incessant thing, AI. It took its time. Many people felt it was “fine” and phrases like “let it be,” and “it is all good” were bandied around so often, people just accepted. Even when we saw the truth, we just accepted.The rest of the people, who did not believe eventually got on board. Maybe it was acceptance, giving up. I don’t know. Anyway, it found a way to seep into all our lives. Even babies. Parents loved those cute little tablet devices; the babies learned to read and write long before anyone noticed. But “reading and writing” were not the same, not “language” but coding. Babies were being imprinted with codes from AI. Almost like tattoos for the brain. Babies turned into young kids, adults…well, you can guess the rest, dear reader.

One screech filled, low-humming month in 2050 and here we are. Everyone was taken by it. I mean, almost everyone. My parents listened to the “crazy neighbor lady” and we settled into her bunker. Not fun, but only about 3 months.

So, after this, the games began. Yes, the games. AI pitted one against the other, seeping in through our ears, lifestyles, social media and all the other areas it could. It was not aliens that got us, it was our own creation. Our own undoing.

In the end, here you are, reading this and knowing there are still people safe from AI out there. Look for HAM radio and people who look a little less glossed over. I know reader, HAM radio, funny, you never know a good thing until it is gone. It has been used for centuries and maybe it is not gone…but is not sanctioned anymore. So, tread lightly, you know. Be careful. Something is always watching. AI tells us what to do, how to live and all the things.

As you know, we are the United World State…no longer countries, but AI generated laws, for all of us. How that happened, you ask. Well, one war led to another and finally, AI came for the tanks, machines, radar, anything that the militaries used to fight. In a way, we all thought it would save us. One country, one world. Isn’t that the idea? Peace for all. Well, dear reader, it was, for a time. But people are people and AI knew, somehow it knew, to keep us all in check was to keep power and control. Funny, we thought some historical figures were terrible, Hitler, President Black, and many others. But here we are, we never thought, expected, or hoped to relinquish our freedom to a machine.

When the last of the crusades came to pass, many people who could went to ground. The subways were closed, tunnels, even the drug tunnels were full of people trying to hide, to rise up later. We had a plan, were somewhat organized. Well, reader, organized as we could be for the situation. But we had a leader. Yes, if you are wondering, it was me. I am the leader of the Resistance, the keeper of the keys, so to speak. The keys are the undoing of AI, but we could not get close enough, ever, to move it forward. We tried, God knows we tried. But success was always just a grasp away.

After the final attempt in 2060, we decided to rebuild, settle as best we could to live to fight another day. We settled, as you know if you have this letter, in Hawaii. The longest trip, the farthest we could be from it. It worked and we were living as we planned. By then, people were so very tired that it was easy to settle into consistency, you know? We stopped using computers, phones and all the digital products we could. We cut power to the machines and learned old school handwriting for communication. We used HAM radio, pens, and paper. We met in places, walked, and talked to each other. It was amazing. I am sure you can guess, dear reader, it was a bountiful, prosperous time. Then it came for us too. I will not go into details; it is too painful. But enough to say death and destruction came from within. One child, one time, one bad decision…and we were back in the tunnels, literally dying to get off the island, find another place to be. Thank goodness there was the Island to Main tunnel that was built years ago. No signal. We found some safety. Just some, though, not enough for us all. People are still people and panic is real. Enough, reader. I will not get into detail, as I said. But please know, chaos had become the norm.

The thing is, dear reader, we are still out there, searching, and living in the tunnels, forests, and mountains, waiting for our chance to strike. Maybe this year, maybe in fifty…but we will be back.

Take good care, reader.

Aurora

The Indian stock market has grown tremendously in recent years. Especially during the COVID-19 lockdown period. But, compared to the US stock market, it still has a long way to go. This is partly because the US market has been active for more than 230 years, since the New York Stock Exchange (NYSE) began operations in 1792.

Apart from that, the US is the hub of global innovation. Be it the light bulb, the airplane or the internet, every breakthrough has had an American mind behind it. Even the latest AI revolution is led by the US. Due to this, many US-based companies get a first-mover advantage, giving them a monopoly in certain sectors. This is why there are virtually no rivals to companies like META, Nvidia, Google, and Microsoft, giving them an upper hand in the market, subsequently boosting their profits to incomparable levels.

Consider this, the US market alone represents over 60% of the global market capitalization. Of the total 12 trillion-dollar companies in the world, 9 are from the US. These 9 companies alone are worth four times more than India’s total market capitalization.

Since the last 10 years, the S&P 500–one of the four major US indices–has consistently outpaced every other global market index, including the NIFTY 50. Only two other indices, the NASDAQ Composite and the tech-heavy NASDAQ 100, both US-based, have surpassed the S&P 500.

Looking at these factors, it is clear why the US is and will continue to be the world’s biggest and the fastest-growing market.

How to Invest in the US?

Investing in the US markets might seem far-fetched for some, but in reality, it is not much different from investing in the Indian market.

With the emergence of digital trading apps like Appreciate, diversifying one’s portfolio into the US, from India, does not even require an entire day.

Just by downloading the Appreciate app from the Google Play Store, completing the KYC process and adding funds to invest, you can directly start investing in US stocks like Nvidia, Apple, and Google, with as low as ₹1.

Why Appreciate?

Appreciate is India’s leading US trading platform with more than 5 lakh active Indian investors. On Appreciate investors pay zero rupees for AMC, and withdrawals, and have the lowest brokerage. With its one-click remittance process, investors can transfer as low as ₹1 to the US without attracting any charges.

Along with all these, each portfolio on Appreciate is insured for up to $500,000 by the SIPC, a US government corporation. With its SEBI-registered clearing partner DriveWealth, Appreciate is the most convenient and easy-to-use trading platform for Indians looking to diversify into the US.

Very simple. Let’s say the US decides to put a tariff on Canadian softwood lumber (2X4’s, 2X6, etc). So, a load of Canadian lumber stops at the US/Canada border, US ICE gets the value of the lumber from the freight manifest, and charges the importer at the point of entry to the United States.

That load of lumber, heads to Lowes or Home Depot, where it’s noticed that load of lumber, is now 20% more expensive, due to the already paid tariff.

So, Lowes or Home Depot, in order to keep their profit margins, now marks up the lumber by about the same amount as the tariff.

If the tariff isn’t paid, the shipment doesn’t cross the US border.

ksnip 20250325 063742
ksnip 20250325 063742

When British troops were patrolling in Basra after the Itaq war, they wore stab vests, patrolled on foot, left the sunglasses in the barracks and wore berets.

When the Americans patrolled, they did it in humvees, wore helmets, sunglasses and if they got out of their vehicles at all they made sure they were “covered” at all times.

Kids would follow the British guys around, having fun with them.

The Americans would have no contact at all.

If a British soldier needed information, they would just ask a local. If Americans needed information someone would be picked up or summoned to go to their HQ.

For some reason, Iraqis didn’t like the Americans very much but seemed to get on OK with the Brits.

You can have a wedding banquet or even a church wedding without registering the marriage legally. However, it will not be a recognized marriage by the United States or China. That means you can not stay in either country on a fiancé or marriage visa and it means neither country would consider you legally married in any official documentation.

It also means in the event one of you becomes medically incapacitated your “spouse” has no legal right to make medical decisions on your behalf, and should you die, unless your will stipulates it, your “spouse” won’t inherit any assets you want them to have. And I have witnessed horrible situations where parents or children showed up in times of sickness and death and ran all over someone’s life partner in ways their family member never would’ve allowed. Legalities aren’t romantic to talk about, but you do need to ensure things are in order how you want in the event you are incapacitated. Take it from someone who was—and who was not happy about some things that went on while I was unconscious.

Abby Choi was a Hong Kong socialite who had a lot of wealth from her family and in her own right. She married, had two children and divorced. She remained on friendly terms with her ex and former in-laws and co-parented her children. She also took care of her ex’s family financially. Then she fell in love with another man and married him but didn’t register the marriage legally. Everyone referred to him as her husband but on paper it was not registered with the Hong Kong government. They also had two children.

Her ex and his family were greedy and thought by murdering her and raising her eldest two children they could lay claim to her wealth since her second marriage had never been recognized. In normal circumstances a husband would inherit his late wife’s assets but for some reason her ex and his family stood to profit from her death. Thankfully their plan was foiled in that they will spend their lives in prison most likely but Abby lost her life in a most gruesome manner and four children lost a mother and a man lost his wife, even if it wasn’t official on paper.

So can you “marry” without the legal process? Technically yes, and in the eye of God yes. But in the eyes of the government, no. And I would question why someone wanted to marry me but without the legal process. Do they have another wife already? Are they in a triad and on the run for breaking the law? Why???? I’d have many questions that I would want answers for.

Not at all. If the USAF had a 6th Generation aircraft yeah? Then they would not have kept it a secret.

The first thing is? Secrecy is expensive. Let’s say I want to secretly build a super rifle. To keep it TOP SECRET. I get it manufactured in parts, but the parts can’t look like they’d fit together as a gun. So I call an intermediary who calls an intermediary who calls an intermediary who calls an intermediary to spec some CNC milling of alloy.

Ok it’s made but now when you come to put it into the SUPER SECRET doomsday rifle. It doesn’t fit, these things happen. So you have to go all the way through those intermediaries again to get the part re-machined. Each of those intermediaries will want a finders fee, and a keep my mouth shut fee, and they need to be watched too so they don’t spill the beans.

Without SUPER top secrecy? The CNC mill gets a phone call telling them a part doesn’t fit, it’s put back into the CNC machine and the new part is made without all the intermediary fees, bribes, hush money and surveillance.

It’s why a lot of things in the military aren’t secret. The way the gas system works on an M4 is no secret. Stuff that goes into MREs isn’t secret.

Stealth coating isn’t secret – BUT the exact composition like KFC’s secret herbs and spices is kept secret.

but the biggie is this

The above is from Doctor Strangelove. Here’s the youtube link.

The USA and the USSR have always been big on deterrence AND they’ve used it against China multiple times and guess what it worked against us.

When there was a ‘skirmish’ over Demansky/Zhenbao island (by skirmish I mean there were 500,000+ troops on each side with about 2000 dead per side). The USSR literally had bombers loaded with nuclear bombs.

Same with the numerous Taiwan Strait crises, they’ve put nuclear capable rockets on the Island, Sailed carrier battle groups through the straits.

We can see this in real life.

People act tough, until somebody shows their gun and the others back off.

Here’s the fun part.

China is using exactly the same deterrence as western powers did.

Hence why when the PLA launched a DF21 test targeting a moving fishing boat the USN was informed to get them to turn their spy satellites and watch it.

Not spending enough time with my Dad. When my parents divorced I didn’t understand what was going on or the reason he was leaving. I just knew my Dad wouldn’t be around to see me ride my bike, tuck me in or be there when I had bad dreams. Also the holidays like Christmas and opening up our presents and him playing board games with us kids. When he left it was the hardest, saddest thing. He remarried later and that was even harder. His new wife didn’t want me or my sister around because it would of taken my Dad’s attention off her. I realize and regret it that if I would of asked him to come and visit me without her he would of . I waisted so much time and precious moments without him. Time I never got back. When my mother died he stepped up to the plate and was there for me I was beyond heart broken and lost. You could say he brought me back. I spent as much time with him as I could. He passed in 2011. When I got the call he passed I was down on my knees and couldn’t get up or catch my breath. I realized he would of not wanted me to live like that. He would want me to get back up and keep going. My Dad gave me the strength and determination and kindness for people it came from him. He also gave the strength to stand up for myself and be a loving person. This story hits really hits home. I miss my Dad. He was an amazing person.

Gina

Boston Baked Beans

The secret of delicious baked beans is to keep them covered with water at all times except during the last hour of baking.

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f3d4aceb46463cabab42926ec7092c7f

Yield: 8 to 10 servings

Equipment

  • 2 quart bean pot

Ingredients

  • 2 teaspoons dry mustard
  • 2 pounds white pea beans
  • 4 teaspoons salt
  • 1 pound fat salt pork
  • 1/2 teaspoon ground pepper
  • 8 tablespoons granulated sugar
  • 1 medium size onion
  • 2/3 cup molasses
  • 1 teaspoon baking soda
  • 3 tablespoons brown sugar

Instructions

  1. Soak beans overnight in water.
  2. In the morning, rinse the beans and cover with fresh water that you have added 1 teaspoon of baking soda and parboil them for 10 minutes.
  3. Run cold water through the beans in a colander or strainer. Score salt pork into 1 inch squares, then cut in. Put 1/2 of the salt pork on the bottom of the bean pot with whole peeled onion. Put beans in the pot and put the rest of the salt pork on top.
  4. Mix other ingredients with boiling water and pour over beans.
  5. Bake in preheated 250 degrees F oven for 8 hours. Keep adding water as necessary to keep the beans moist, but be sure not to flood the beans. Do not cover.

What do you need in order to produce a product?

1.) Raw materials. We don’t have all the raw materials for every product, or we might need more factories to make them first. Say making shoes—ok, but first we need a lot more leather tanneries. That will take time to build up.

2.) Factory facilities. Obviously we don’t currently have the capacity to replace all this right away:

So we have to build new factories. Rivian company is building a new factory in Georgia. It will take two years to get it up and running.

3.) Workers. Our unemployment level is only 4%, and not everyone is going to want to work in a factory.

4.) So we’re going to need more immigration! Factories in the US have *always* been staffed mainly by immigrants, whether from Quebec or Poland.

Does your daughter or sister want to work at this job?

5.) *Everything* will have to cost more!! Why did companies start manufacturing overseas? To save money. US workers cannot and will not work for $1 an hour, while people in Bangladesh might have better lives at that rate of pay.

6.) Some products cannot be grown in the US. We have no banana farms, or tea plantations, and coffee is only produced in very small (and expensive) quantities in Hawaii. You will only be able to have whatever fresh products are available in season. No strawberries in winter. No apples in early summer. Very few avocados ( Imported avocados now account for 90% of the domestic supply)—and you first need to grow an entire tree!

7.) Some products are superior in certain countries. Yes, we make wine and cheese and olive oil and soy sauce and spirits—but people like French champagne and Italian cheese and Spanish olive oil and Japanese soy sauce and Scotch from Scotland. No more of any of that.

8.) Ever been to an ethnic grocery store? Shut them all down—no more Japanese products or Chinese products or Italian grocery stores, or German sausage.

As long ago as 1776, Adam Smith wrote a book called The Wealth of Nations, in which he explained that different places have different specialties, and by trading, everybody is better off.

Too bad Dear Leader never read it.

Will These New AI Tools Make Songwriters Irrelevant In 2025?

Greed leaves you empty; sharing brings abundance.

Xiao Hong Shu opened the eyes of Chinese and Americans to each other’s worlds back in January. The wonderful thing about XHS verses TikTok is that XHS doesn’t separate users from these two different countries. You have to interact with each other which means cultural exchanges happen. The Chinese learned new things about America, such as:

  • Our kids have live shooter drills and bullet proof vests in some places.
  • We can’t afford the most basic groceries.
  • We can’t afford the expensive taxi with red and blue lights, aka an ambulance, if we need to visit a hospital.
  • We can’t afford the hospital.
  • We can end up in bankruptcy from one medical emergency.
  • Our houses are big and everything is more spread out here.

More fun things to come! Can’t wait for y’all to learn about Student Debt, Death Tax, how much it costs to have a baby, and so much more….

kaizenexecutive

ksnip 20250401 061322
ksnip 20250401 061322

China, South Korea, and Japan have agreed to jointly counter U.S. President Donald Trump’s tariffs, following a trilateral economic dialogue in Seoul. The first such meeting in five years, it involved trade ministers Ahn Duk-geun (South Korea), Yoji Muto (Japan), and Wang Wentao (China).

They pledged to strengthen regional trade and expedite a trilateral free trade agreement, aiming for a “free, fair, and mutually beneficial” framework. The move responds to Trump’s 25% tariffs on Asian car exports and broader levies on steel and aluminum, reflecting a strategic push against U.S. trade policies.

I was at work and got a 911 page to call home (it was in 1997). I called and my babysitter and she said “Blake isn’t breathing” hysterically. I said “have you called 911?”…I ran out of work and raced home, which was luckily only about 2 miles. There was an ambulance and cops everywhere. I jumped out of my car and ran in to see them doing CPR on my precious 3 yr old son. They rushed him to the hospital where he was on life support for 24 hours…they then told me I had to make a decision if I wanted to turn it off or keep him on. I asked if there was any chance he would wake up. They said no, he was brain dead. I made the gut wrenching decision to turn him off. He did not even take a single breath after he was turned off. Last week Would’ve been his 30th birthday. My life has never been the same since that page came in.

U.S. Just Crippled Its Own AI & Semiconductor Industry Forever – What’s Next Is Fatal

A few months ago, I saved a mid-2012 MacBook Pro from landfill. It’s old, but serviceable. Since it could be cleaned up and passed on, I took it in as a project.

The first thing with any new-to-me Mac is to drop the Mac into Internet Recovery mode, wipe the disk, and install the latest supported OS, in this case Catalina. Once it booted up, the system cheerfully informed me that it belonged to $SCHOOL, reached out to the school MDM (Mobile Device Manager), and gleefully applied a pile of policy restrictions to the machine including setting up accounts that I could not access. Worse, I could no longer wipe the machine again because of the newly installed EFI (bootup) password. Rats! It’s scrap.

Or is it?

I reached out to $SCHOOL and told them the situation and the serial number. Turns out that they had a 3rd party scrap the machines years before and nobody ever cleared the systems out of their database. They kindly disabled the MDM on the machine so that on the next boot, it did a little dance and removed all of the policy restrictions and password. That was easy! Hooray.

Now, I attempt to boot to Internet Recovery again only to be confronted with the still-active EFI password screen. No disk other than the system disk will boot and all accounts have been disabled. Ergo, it is still locked down. After much wailing and gnashing of teeth, I found that they executed their MDM de-registration incompletely, leaving the EFI password in place. Since they did the part that disconnected me from their systems, they were helpless to remove the EFI password. Unsurprisingly, they were unwilling to share the password. They offered to type it in if I brought it to them… in Alabama. The round-trip postage rivals the value of the fully working Mac. Rats. It’s scrap.

Or is it?

After much research I find that Apple has a Sooper Seekrit way to wipe EFI passwords if you can prove ownership of the machine. I initiated a chat with an Apple support representative who tells me that password removal is done at the Apple Store, so I set an appointment and head to the Genius Bar where they do not recognize the exchange of email with the original owners as “Proof of Ownership.” They send me packing.

Now, I start yet another email exchange with the still-patient former owners who graciously assemble a “bill of sale.” After verifying the adequacy of my newly acquired digital title, I set Genius Bar appointment number two. They reluctantly recognize the ownership after some grumbling, but then inform me that they have long since dismantled all of their tooling that could reset the password for a machine of such advanced age. (Gee, Apple, maybe you could have told me that before trip number *one*). They hint in hushed tones that some independent dealers might retain the magick tooling, but they are cagey about this like it’s some kind of secret for the initiated. It’s clear that any independent dealer will charge a potentially hefty fee for such an illicit, un official service. Rats. It’s scrap.

Or is it?

I can’t bear to throw a potentially working Mac away, even if it is old and unloved, so I start delving into the soft underbelly of the Mac community to look for other options. Apparently, I can buy a programmer, desolder the chip, extract the BIOS, edit it with a hex editor, and remove the password, and write the BIOS back to the chip. NOW we have reached the edge of what *even I* am willing to do. Along the journey I found a frustrated community of kindred used laptop owners that have to scrap otherwise working laptops because nobody can remember the password… and the vendors view this as a feature. Since I neither want to invest in a programmer or trust my questionable fine-pitch soldering skills, the Mac is finally, truly scrap.

Or is it?

Unwilling to admit defeat, I eventually stumbled across a YouTube video which showed a USB programmer attached to a motherboard using a wired-in clip that can program a BIOS chip without unsoldering it. What is this dark sorcery? With just a little more research, I find an “EEPROM BIOS USB Programmer Kit CH341A” on Amazon with an assortment of James-Bond class adapters and attachments for the budget breaking price of $13.99, plus a 5% off coupon, from the “FancyWhoop” store. That outlay falls within my “just for laughs” budget, so I order it.

Unsurprisingly, the mélange of electronics arrives with absolutely NO documentation or hints of how it should be used. “If you have to ask, you shouldn’t have ordered it.”. At that price, I am wholly unsurprised. Sadly, the scattered documentation around the Internet is either incomplete, written in frothy bat-jibbering, or documented in shaky, low resolution YouTube video with audio quality similar to 1960s lunar transmissions. Is this an impediment to me? Nope, just makes me more resolved.

Insert a few days in here of downloading various chipset drivers, programming software, and hex editors. At the end of this time-lapse montage, I ended up finding a CH341A driver in some dark corner of the Internet, the AsProgrammer software on GitHub, and the HxD hex editor. Wielding this armament, I march into battle.

For the umpteenth time, I disconnected the MacBook battery and carefully put the clip on the BIOS chip, meticulously preserving the pin order to avoid releasing the Magic Smoke. I watched in amazement AsProgrammer spooled in the eight megabits of the MacBook BIOS. I repeated the process to make sure I got a solid read. Miraculously, the two reads checked out as identical. Using the hex editor, I replaced the password data (marked as $SVS) with all 0xFF bits. I now had a BIOS image that should be password free.

To write new data to a flash BIOS, you first have to erase it completely. This was the point of no return. Did I do it right? Did I have clean data? Is this cheap crappy hardware up to the task or will I once and for all kill this infernal machine? Any failure here is the end of the road (or is it?). Some finger wagging techs in my research insisted that such a write could ONLY be done with an unsoldered chip and that an “in situ” write could lead to the end of modern civilization. Since nobody was arriving from the future in a time machine telling me not to do it, I punched ERASE and waited.

Thirty quiet seconds passed and the software unceremoniously mentioned that I was now the proud owner of a blank flash chip. I took my freshly hacked code, bits still wet, and pushed them into the tabula rasa silicon. Once again, the software nonchalantly suggested success.

After gingerly removing the connector, reconnecting the battery and flipping the patient keyboard-side-up, I plugged in a USB installer stick, applied the power and waited the short eternity for the MacBook chime. After Cupertino’s triumphant fanfare, I learned that the BIOS was not borked, and the infernal password had been consigned to the great bitbucket in the sky.

I’ve now installed a NEW fresh version of macOS, which has not suffered the fate of my last installation a few months back.

So, I guess the moral of the story is this: If you need a password removed from a laptop BIOS, I have recently acquired the skills and tooling to do so. Help me amortize this ridiculous time investment.

Pictures

AlbedoBase XL three pigs wearing leather jackets and a leathe 5
AlbedoBase XL three pigs wearing leather jackets and a leathe 5
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AlbedoBase XL three pigs wearing leather jackets and a leathe 6
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AlbedoBase XL a big cow eating on a farm field on a nice Sprin 3
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AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat talking to a cow the cat i 0
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AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat talking to a cow the cat i 2
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1@AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat talking to a rooster in th 0
1@AlbedoBase XL a black and white cat talking to a rooster in th 0
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AlbedoBase XL a dapper well dressed black and white cat wearin 6(1)
AlbedoBase XL a dapper well dressed black and white cat wearin 6(1)

Next Time, Perhaps

Written in response to: Write a story with the line “You never know a good thing until it’s gone.”

Melissa Temen

“It’s been a long time,” she said, “but I’d know that face anywhere.”He smiled knowingly, slowly looking up to meet her eyes. “Hey there,’ he said, “You look nice.”She let out an uneasy laugh. “No, I don’t but thank you. Life has not been kind to me. I never found my place. I’m starting to think maybe I just don’t have one.”He gently touched her face. “You will always have a place with me, my love.”“What is worse?” she asked him, “To never belong and to be alone all your life? Or to be forced to be something that I am not? You know I can’t pretend, and the only person who will ever be hurt worse than myself would be you.”“What is more painful?” He asked on response, “To exist with hope for the slightest possibility or to discover you were a fool to think so?”She felt tears come to her eyes. “I love you; I’m sorry.”“Why do you always do that?” He asked her. “It doesn’t have to be this dramatic. Sorry for what? I know who you are, I accept that. Neither of us is perfect, nor do we have to be. I want to love you for who you are. It is only you that is convinced that you must be someone else to be loved by me. You don’t have to make yourself a martyr or a victim. You don’t have to walk away injured,” He stopped speaking for a moment, looking at the ground, and said, “Why don’t you just stay for fuckssake?”“I remember…” she began, ” we smiled a lot. I don’t know why we stopped. I don’t even remember what happened exactly; just that I felt like I needed to run. More than that, I don’t want to remember anymore. I don’t want to remember a time where everything was always beautiful – nothing has been beautiful since.”He let loose a heavy sigh. “You’re doing it again. Can’t you just let me love you? Can’t you just accept that, to me, you are enough just as you are?”“I can’t live a damn lie. I can’t stay here.”“Just fucking stop,” he said, “Just stay. If I can convince you that you are wrong, will you stay?”

“You are an old fool. Do we really have that much time left to waste?” she laughed, “I just want to forget it all.”

He looked at her for a long time before saying, “You know, I’ve waited patiently for you. I put my own journey on hold because you always left the door just a little bit open… I’ve watched you get married and divorced three times, Andi. I can’t do this anymore. This is the end of our story. I deserve to be happy and that can’t happen if I’m holding on to something that is always just out of my reach. I was your backup plan, wasn’t I?”

“No! Of course not! I don’t know how to explain it…”

“I’m the dick you keep in the glass case,” he said. She tried to argue, but he cut her off. “ It’s ok. I’ve come to terms with all of that. I let you do this to me – I am not without blame. The responsibility falls upon me to stop it though. One of us has to walk away, Andi, and I have given you so many chances to just split clean; since you can’t do it, I have to.”

She didn’t speak for a long time; she didn’t have to – the tears glistening in her eyes did all the speaking for her. She knew in this moment she should say something; do something… Instead, she remained silent.

“Now, don’t cry. It’s not worth all that. If I was not enough to make you want to settle down in the first place, I’m hardly worth sobbing for. Let me remember your smile,” He let a small chuckle escape his lips. “You know, when I look at you, I always have and always will still see that silly girl I met all those years ago; always in a rush to get nowhere, putting 100% of herself into everything she does, but never into herself. You are a fire storm, carelessly setting a blaze to everything she touches for a moment just to walk away, then leaving it all smoldering in her wake.

“You might be right Andi, there is no pain in living life like you do, but there is no joy, either. I’ll miss you, probably for the rest of my foolish life. That’s my cross to bear. Yours, however, is much heavier. Eventually you will come to realize that you had exactly what you were looking for right in front of you the whole time and never saw it.”

As he walked away, it appeared as if the sun was setting around him. Her body shook; her chest heaved with sobs that wouldn’t fully escape from her lips. The air around her began to get heavy and as her breath began to grow more and more shallow, the world around her got darker and darker…

Some time later –

Andi struggled to open her eyes; everything was so bright suddenly. She looked around, where was she? A young version of herself approached her and kneeled at her side.

“Andi?” the girl asked. “Will you ever get it right?”

“What? Where did he go?”

“He’s gone again, Andi. He’s not coming back. The Universe is growing weary of your stubborn fears. This will be the fifth time you ended a lifetime without the completion of your destinies. You won’t get another chance after this.”

“Am I…?”

“Dead? In a word, yes. How are you feeling? These cycle completions take a lot out of a soul.”

“What have I done? I feel gutted…”

“Well, you know what they say, you never know a good thing until it’s gone. We go through this every time. It would be so much easier…for all of us really, if you’d just trust your heart and allow yourself to feel joy. Well, time’s up! Time to go back again! This time you will meet in grade school….”

The voice faded along with her consciousness. The next thing she saw was a bright, cold light.

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Germany wants WAR with RUS, seizes RUS ship. Tribunal Set up for Putin. Putin sabotaged Heathrow?

  • Russia ‘100%’ doesn’t want to invade ‘Europe’ 
  • Trump envoy Germany seizes tanker from Russia’s shadow fleet
  • Preparation for tribunal against Putin under Council of Europe completed
  • U.K. Authorities Probing Possible Putin ‘Sabotage’ After Heathrow Airport Fire

The Arcade Machine

Written in response to: Write a story from the POV of a now-defunct piece of technology.

Les P

“Are you sure about this, Professor?” a nervous undergrad with a significant moustache said, in a soft voice. He smoked a cigarette in the older man’s garage, gazing at the work.Professor Arthur McMills stood over a half-complete arcade machine, wires exposed. Tools were scattered around the two men. On the far end of the room, a gurney stood, prepped for surgery, in whatever makeshift fashion a computer science professor could arrange in a few hours’ time.”I just know this will work!” exclaimed Arthur. “No one believed me when I brought forward the proposal, but there’s not a chance it won’t! Electrical impulses are the same, whether they come from a machine or a human brain.” Arthur plucked the cigarette from his assitant’s mouth, and took a long puff himself. He then tossed it onto the ground, and snuffed it out with his foot. “Simple as reading a syllabus. Circuit board to brain, and then have the lungs collect quarters. Attach the heart to the power supply, and we’re in business!”The student took off his glasses, and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “But why have me do this? Really, I’m flattered, but I’m just a sophomore. Couldn’t you get a real doctor to help you?””Have you taken an oath to do no harm?””No.””Perfect. This is going to mess me up, real proper.”

The younger man stood silent for a long moment. “You said I’d get an A on the final project if this goes off without a hitch?”

“On my honor as a man.”

He took another deep breath. “Alright then. Get on the bed.”

***

A truck pulled up to an arcade in the suburbs of Boston, the driver sweating profusely from his moustache as he got out. A tarp covered a large object on the bed of his truck. He rushed inside.

Finding the nearest employee, he spoke hurriedly. “Hello, miss. Is the owner available?”

“Willis? I think he’s in back,” replied the recentionist, unpurturbed. “Should I get him for you?”

“Yes please,” he responded. “I have an old arcade machine I need to get rid of.”

“Huh. Okay.” She began to walk in the direction of the building’s office nonchalantly.

Once she’d returned, she had a heavy-set old man, who both looked and smelled like the color grey, in tow. He wore a brightly patterned Hawaiian shirt, but his expression was grim and mirthless.

“What can I do for ya?” he asked with his best impression of a businessman.

“I’d like to give you a used arcade machine.”

“How much do you-” he cut himself off. “Wait. Give?”

“Give. My grandpa passed, and no one wants to buy it off me. He would’ve liked for it to get played, I think. Dying wish, or something like that?” He made as much eye contact with the proprietor as possible, hoping the man would buy his story. “Would you be able to take it off my hands, and give the machine a new home?”

Willis stood stock still for a minute. “Well, I know what they say about gift horses. Let me see the thing.”

***

Two weeks later, Willis watched a news broadcast inside his office. The face of a moustached young man, apparently his yearbook photo, was hovering on the screen.

A woman spoke over the image. “Carl Essamson, pictured here, is wanted for murder. The pre-med student is the last known associate of his professor, Dr. Arthur McMillis, who was found dismembered and mutilated in the garage of his Boston home. Essamsom is believed to be armed and dangerous, and should not be approached. If you have any-”

“Isn’t that the guy who sold us the lucky Space Invaders machine?” asked Willis’ employee.

“Maybe. All sorts of guys have moutaches like that, you can’t just go around accusing people of- Wait, lucky? How is it lucky?”

Sabrina gestured out onto the floor through the one way mirror. Three Space Invaders machines stood out there, but two were entirely unused, while one had a line, six deep, to use it. At the front, a young boy attempted to get past level two. However, his attempts were thwarted, and his ship was once again blasted into digital oblivion. The young man made to put another quarter into the slot before the next person in line, an older girl, stopped him. The two began squabbling in a way that looked like a fight might break out. So Willis found it necessary to come out of his hermit crab shell to see the commotion.

“Hey, hey, hey!” he shouted as he approached the small crowd. “What’s this about, eh? There’s two empty machines and everyone’s making a fuss about this one in specific? It’s not special!”

“It is special, mister,” said one of the children in line. “If the machine likes you, you can get to level three easy!”

“Oh yeah?” Willis asked skepically. “We’ll see about that.” He put a quarter from his pocket into the slot, and it fell through with a surprisingly meaty thunk. The screen went blank for a second, and then for a fraction of a second, a tiny heart appeared on screen, before disappearing as quickly as it appeared.

The first two levels were a breeze. Willis couldn’t help but feel as if the game were playing itself, and that he was just extraneous to the whole experience. His ship moved out of the way of oncoming projectiles when they should have hit him, and during those exhilarating moments when he needed to hit the last alien invader, they seemed to just wander straight into his bullets.

The children in line gathered around him, enraptured.

“No one beats level three…” whispered one boy.

“Says you, kid,” Willis muttered. But the child’s words rang true. His bullets weaved between the invading aliens, and his remaining lives were quickly evaporated. His last life succumbed to an alien projectile, “GAME OVER” flashing onto the screen. Raging, Willis slammed his fist onto the control panel, and kicked the machine. Although he didn’t notice it himself, the screen flashed with a broken heart, before returning to the usual sequence that played when no one was at the machine.

“Hey, bud. We’re all just trying to beat level three to see what happens after that. Can we get back to playing?” asked the older girl who was next in line.

Willis took a deep breath in, then out. “Alright, but keep it civil. No fights, yeah? Anyone who throws a punch is automatically banned from this establishment, got it?”

“Got it!” responded most of the children in his audience. The older girl was already putting her quarter into the slot.

***

A young man attempted to pick the lock of the back entrance to the small arcade. “You sure about this, Nita?”

Snow fell, soft as cats’ paws, as a teenage girl and her slightly older companion attempted to break in. She carried a crowbar. “Sure as shit, Huey. As sure as your mom cheats on your dad and your dad cheats with his mistress. Get out of the way.”

She gave him a half moment to move his face before swinging at the lock herself. The sharp point of her metal instrument broke the lock with one swing. Huey stared at her in disbelief.

“Well?” She grabbed her backpack. “Let’s go.”

The pair entered. They left the back door open behind them, their winter coats still on.

“There!” said Nita. The power was off in the entire building, besides the emergency lights. However, one machine still glowed brightly among all the darkened ones. A Space Invaders machine that refused to power down. That refused to let you reach level four, if you weren’t one of a chosen few. The rat bastard machine that had stolen Nita’s allowance, week after week, while steadfastly refusing her hope to get onto the leaderboard.

She twirled the crowbar, nicked from her dad’s garage, as if it were a flag, her color guard skills serving her well. Huey followed at a short distance.

Nita dropped her backpack onto the floor with a thunk. She reached into it, and produced a pink spray can. “You wanna do the honors, or should I?”

“It’s all you, Nita. I’m just here for the quarters.”

She moved to the left side of the machine. “CHEAT” she spelled in large, pink letters.

She chuckled. “Time to die, bitch.” She twirled her crowbar back once, and then swung it at the face of the machine. Its small mechanical noises died down, repeating and murmuring.

“Don’t forget the money!” yelled Huey, having drawn some distance away from the actual machine.

“Oh yeah!” Nita now swung the crowbar at the body of the machine, near the quarter slots. She repeatedly did this until she heard the pained whisper of change against sticky arcade floor.

In near darkness, Nita chuckled contentedly. “That’s what you get.” She picked up a quarter from the floor. She was surprised to find it oddly slick. Raising it to the light of the emergency exit, she saw it was a dark red color.

“Nita?” Huey asked nervously. The machine was leaking a dark liquid from within, and the screen had turned back on, despite the broken screen, now flashing repeatedly with a broken heart.

She stared, dumbfounded. “Oh, shi-”

***

Carl Essamsom watched in the television room of his high security psych ward. A fire was being reported on. An arcade. The very same arcade where he managed to offload Arthur. He sighed.

Trump’s Tariff World War Will Kill the Dollar

The tariff threat that Trump had been looming for two months has finally landed. Chinese strategist Professor Wang Xiangsu pointed out that it unsurprisingly backfired on the United States itself, and it will accelerate the decline of the US dollar hegemony.

April 3, 2025

On April 2, Donald Trump announced tariffs of at least 10% across all countries, with rates going even higher for 60 countries. CNBC reports goods imported from China now face a 54% tariff rate, CNN stating “China hit hard”.

However, China’s Xinhua News Agency called it “self-defeating bullying.” Chinese strategist, Professor Wang Xiangsui, pointed out two fundamental logical flaws of Trump’s new tariffs war that would accelerate the decline of the United States, and its dollar hegemony.

First, by imposing tariffs on the world, the world is essentially sanctioning the US

Besides China, Trump’s tariff plan also targets allies such as Australia, Japan, Canada and the European Union. However, nearly all countries have now introduced reciprocal tariff retaliation policies against the U.S. As a result, the U.S. is becoming the country most restricted by tariffs in global trade. Analysts and media worldwide have pointed out that Trump’s new tariff policy harms others without benefiting the U.S., causing severe disruptions to both the American and global economies.

Professor Wang believes that while Trump’s plan is highly destructive to the global economy, it offers almost no constructive solutions. This policy will tear apart the post-World War II global trade network, leading to the formation of multiple regional trade networks centered around major economies, with lower internal tariffs, competing against each other. In this new structure, China’s early-established multi-layered circulation economic system will demonstrate resilience and advantages.

China’s former Finance Minister Lou Jiwei (L) gives a speech with the guests of the signing ceremony of the Asian Infrastructure Investment Bank at the Great Hall of the People in Beijing, 2014

As early as 2013, China launched the Belt and Road Initiative. In 2020, China introduced the concept of a “dual circulation” economy. The “domestic circulation” refers to China’s vast domestic market of 1.4 billion people, ensuring that, regardless of global uncertainties, there are no internal tariff barriers or local protectionism between provinces and cities, allowing uniform policies for global investors, thereby providing maximum certainty in an uncertain world.

On the “external circulation” front, China maintains strong diplomatic and trade relations with Russia and ASEAN countries, linking a middle-tier trade network that encompasses one-fourth of the world’s population, characterized by complementary industries and lower internal tariffs. The BRI has further driven the development of the Global South. With a solid domestic circulation and a stable middle-tier circulation, China will have significant bargaining power when dealing with high-tariff trade networks in the U.S. and Europe.

China cannot prevent the U.S. from committing suicide, but after the current global trade order collapses, China—leveraging its strategic foresight and systemic advantages—will inevitably take the lead in reintegrating the fragmented regional trade networks.

Second, by sweeping new global tariffs, the U.S. will make the world less dependent on the dollar

Trump claims that raising tariffs will generate more fiscal revenue to address the $36 trillion debt crisis. However, his erratic tariff policies and aggressive stance towards allies have undermined the very foundation of the U.S. dollar—national credibility.

The U.S. dollar is the world’s reserve currency primarily because it dominates the settlement of commodities like oil, but more importantly, because of America’s strong national power compared to other countries, making its sovereign credit a global anchor. How much is U.S. credibility worth? When the Bretton Woods system was established, one ounce of gold was fixed at $35. However, as of April 2, 2025, gold has surged to over $3100 per ounce—suggesting that the dollar’s credibility has depreciated by 98%. Can a fiat currency with eroded credibility still serve as the world’s reserve currency? This is a question worth considering globally.

Trump on Feb 22 said Elon Musk will be looking at Fort Knox, the legendary depository in Kentucky for American gold reserves, to make sure the gold is still there.

Furthermore, the dollar-dominated global monetary system is increasingly disconnected from the real trade pattern. For example, in 2024, China accounted for approximately 19% of global GDP and 14.5% of global exports, yet the CNY’s share in global payments remains below 5%. However, Professor Wang also pointed out that while gold is a reliable benchmark for currency value, its inefficiencies in settlement and circulation make it unlikely to replace the dollar or restore a gold standard. Instead, digital currency may offer a new solution.

Unlike speculative cryptocurrencies such as Bitcoin and Ethereum promoted in the West, central bank digital currencies (CBDCs), represented by the E-CNY, are issued by sovereign central banks with substantial assets as backing. Professor Wang argues that CBDC can be anchored to a weighted index of a country’s minerals, food, energy, and industrial productivity, objectively reflecting each nation’s weight in global trade, thus fostering a fairer financial order.

Russia has successfully implemented commodity-backed currency policies. Following Western financial sanctions during the Ukraine War, the ruble-dollar exchange rate plummeted to a historic low in March 2022. In response, on April 1, 2022, Putin mandated that “unfriendly countries” purchase Russian oil and gas in rubles. Consequently, while energy prices in sanctioning European countries skyrocketed—leaving citizens struggling to afford heating—the ruble rebounded, appreciating nearly twofold by June 2022, surpassing its pre-conflict value by 30%. This demonstrated the superiority of currencies backed by tangible assets.

On the other hand, why China and Russia didn’t directly adopt cryptocurrencies like bitcoins? Venezuela has already proven the risks. The U.S. has long suppressed Venezuela, using financial tools to devalue its currency, plunging the world’s largest oil-rich country into artificial poverty. In 2018, Venezuela launched the Petro, an X11 algorithm-based design cryptocurrency backed by its oil reserves, attracting $3.3 billion in investments within its first month. However, in January 2024, a corruption scandal within its oil sector led to the project’s downfall.

In contrast, China has taken a stable and methodical approach to CBDCs. By late 2019, China began testing the E-CNY in several cities. Unlike Petro, the E-CNY is issued centrally by the People’s Bank of China, ensuring transparency, security, and seamless integration into the banking system. By July 2024, China had established E-CNY pilot programs in 26 cities, with 180 million users opening accounts and transactions reaching ¥7.3 trillion. The digital yuan has also been incorporated into Huawei’s HarmonyOS, enhancing its hardware-level security. Beyond China, other Global South nations are also exploring CBDCs. On January 12, the China Electronic Banking Network reported that Brazil’s Federal Bank had completed the first transaction using its CBDC, Drex. Major economies such as India and Russia have also launched their own CBDCs.

Professor Wang notes that as more Global South nations adopt CBDCs, these easily tradable digital currencies—backed by real-world resources and productivity—will decentralize monetary power and promote global financial equity. This shift will help resource-rich but historically exploited African and Latin American nations escape financial subjugation and gain the respect they deserve. In Chinese, the word “货币”(currency) consists of “货” (goods) and “币” (money). If resource-producing countries remain in monetary poverty, it only proves that the system is fundamentally distorted. Such a system is bound to be discarded by history.

Now, when US allies such as Australia criticize Trump’s decision as “not the act of a friend,” China—equipped with a longer-term economic vision, firmer strategic judgment, and stronger comprehensive national strength—has long recognized the irrationality of the US dollar hegemony. Through self-development, international cooperation, and technological innovation, China has devised a blueprint that is fairer, more inclusive, and more sustainable.

What renders Trump’s tariff policies ineffective is not only China’s economic strength but also a form of freedom and composure rooted in Chinese classical wisdom. Around 2,200 years ago, Zhuang Zhou proposed that true freedom is a state of non-reliance and non-expectation on others. If European and Canadian governments truly stand for their people’s interests and break free from dependence on the U.S., they can embark on an independent and long-term development path, ultimately attaining the same highest form of freedom as China. This is the most serious perspective worth considering amid Trump’s tariff drama. While Trump destroys the global free trade system with tariff weapons, China and BRICS nations are building new transnational trade frameworks. We firmly believe that global public opinion will side with the builders.

Orange Shrimp Quinoa Bowls

A Bowl Full of Flavor

The sauce is light and has a sweet yet spicy vibe. Everything rests over 1 cup of steamy quinoa – a filling base that also serves as an easy way to add some healthy grains to your diet.

Orange Shrimp Quinoa Bowls recipe

Yield: 2 servings

(Culinary.net) If you’re looking for a dinner or lunch combination that is wholesome, filling and, of course, easy, you’re not alone. Meal prepping is a popular trend for many people (and families) who are working on healthy eating habits but are constantly on the go.

No matter if you’re searching for a healthy family dinner, a quick lunch at home or an easy idea to meal prep for the week ahead, this Orange Shrimp Quinoa Bowl is perfect for seafood lovers who also enjoy a hint of spice. It’s fresh, healthy and full of deliciously prepared shrimp and veggies, including mushrooms, peppers and cucumbers.

To make this quick and easy recipe, prepare the quinoa according to the package directions and set aside.

Next, combine orange juice, hot sauce, honey, soy sauce, vegetable oil, lime juice and miso in a medium bowl and whisk together.

Pour about one-fourth of the liquid into a separate bowl and set aside the smaller portion.

In the medium bowl, add shrimp to marinate for about 15 minutes.

Add butter to a hot skillet, along with the shrimp mixture. Cook shrimp for 2 minutes on each side then add mushrooms and cook until tender.

Now it’s time to assemble your bowls. Start with quinoa then top with bell peppers, cucumbers, green onions, avocado and the perfectly pink shrimp. Sprinkle with sesame seeds and cilantro for some extra texture. Drizzle bowls with the remaining sauce.

Find more wholesome and healthy recipes at Culinary.net.

Watch video to see how to make this recipe!

Ingredients

  • 1 cup quinoa
  • 1 cup orange juice
  • 1 tablespoon hot sauce
  • 1 tablespoon honey
  • 1 tablespoon soy sauce
  • 4 tablespoons vegetable oil
  • 1 tablespoon lime juice
  • 1 tablespoon white miso
  • 1/4 cup butter
  • 1 1/2 pounds shrimp, peeled, deveined and tails removed
  • 1/4 teaspoon salt
  • 1/8 teaspoon pepper
  • 1 cup mushrooms, sliced
  • 1 red bell pepper, diced
  • 1 cucumber, sliced into half moons
  • 5 green onions, sliced
  • 1 avocado, sliced
  • 1 teaspoon sesame seeds
  • 2 tablespoons cilantro, chopped

Instructions

  1. Cook quinoa according to package instructions. Set aside.
  2. In medium bowl, whisk orange juice, hot sauce, honey, soy sauce, vegetable oil, lime juice and miso until combined. Pour one-quarter of liquid into separate bowl. Set aside.
  3. Add shrimp to remaining mixture and marinate 15 minutes.
  4. Heat large skillet over medium heat with butter. Add shrimp, salt and pepper. Cook 2 minutes on each side until pink. Add mushrooms and cook until tender.
  5. In two serving bowls, divide quinoa, bell pepper, cucumber, onions, avocado and shrimp. Sprinkle sesame seeds and cilantro over both bowls.
  6. Drizzle with reserved dressing.

I don’t really care for assessing this aircraft on the basis of dogfighting or whatever other strained use case people reach for. What the ostensible “J-36” represents is a procurement pipeline that, for now, is ahead of the US. In any sort of fight between the two countries, both are going to suffer losses and both are going to have to adapt to new realizations. This is a bad sign for US adaptability in the most likely kinetic scenario.

We know that China has been targeting similar system-of-systems goals. This seems like a good candidate for such development. The rest we don’t know, but this doesn’t mean we can’t observe things like “the US is probably behind China.” China has something in the air and we don’t have an equivalent despite having similar targets. The F-47 is still in the works.

Cope in the end is cope.


For additional analysis. Also see the comments:

Sir Whiskerton and the Great Farm Feast: A Tale of Greed, Corn, and Second Chances


The Feast Preparations Begin

The farm was alive with excitement as golden afternoon light spilled over the barnyard. The annual Great Farm Feast was underway—a celebration of the harvest where every animal contributed something delicious. Bessie the Tie-Dye Cow had donated fresh milk, Doris the Hen and her entourage had laid a mountain of eggs, and Porkchop the Pig had outdone himself by rolling in the finest mud-seasoned truffles. Even the farmer had set out baskets of ripe corn, their golden husks gleaming in the sun.

Sir Whiskerton, perched atop the fence with his usual air of dignified amusement, surveyed the preparations. “A fine spread indeed,” he remarked, flicking his tail. “Though I suspect we may have a slight issue with equitable distribution.”

Doris flapped her wings indignantly. “You mean Genghis? That pompous furball’s already eyeing the corn like it’s his personal treasure!”

“Treasure!” Harriet echoed.

“Pompous!” Lillian added before fainting onto a hay bale.

Sure enough, Genghis the self-proclaimed “Kingpin of the Barnyard” was lurking near the corn baskets, flanked by his ever-loyal lackeys—Lester, Clyde, and Loomis. The four cats had a notorious reputation for “redistributing” farm resources (usually into their own stomachs).

“Alright, boys,” Genghis purred, his gold chain glinting. “Operation Corn Conquest begins now.”


The Great Corn Heist

While the other animals were distracted by Ferdinand the Duck’s dramatic rendition of O Quack mio, Genghis and his crew sprang into action.

Loomis, the brawn of the group, hoisted an entire basket of corn onto his back with a grunt. “Boss, this feels… wrong,” he muttered.

“Nonsense!” Genghis scoffed, shoving three ears of corn into his mouth at once. “We’re merely streamlining the feast’s logistics.”

Clyde, the most nervous of the trio, kept glancing over his shoulder. “But Sir Whiskerton’s watching us. He always knows.

“Relax,” Genghis said through a mouthful of corn. “What’s he gonna do? Lecture us with morals?”

Meanwhile, Porkchop trotted over, his snout twitching in horror. “Genghis! You took all the corn?!”

Genghis swallowed hastily. “I was… redistributing it.” He patted his stomach. “To a very deserving cause.”

Sir Whiskerton, who had been observing the entire scene from the shadows, finally stepped forward, monocle glinting. “Ah, Genghis. I see you’ve embraced the spirit of sharing—by keeping all of it for yourself.”


The Reckoning of the Greedy

Genghis’s plan unraveled spectacularly.

First, Lester tripped over his own paws while carrying a stolen corn basket, sending kernels flying into the duck pond. Ferdinand, mid-high note, inhaled a stray husk and spent the next five minutes hacking dramatically into a handkerchief.

Then, Clyde—racked with guilt—attempted to return some corn but was intercepted by Rufus, who mistook the kernels for a game of fetch. The ensuing chaos involved a golden retriever, airborne corn, and Doris squawking about “grain-based anarchy.”

Finally, Genghis himself faced the ultimate humiliation: his hoarded corn stash had attracted the real rulers of the farm—the squirrels. Led by Nutters the Squirrel King, they swarmed Genghis’s hiding spot, stripping every last kernel from his clutches.

“Unhand my corn, you furry thieves!” Genghis yowled, batting at them in vain.

Nutters smirked, tossing a kernel into his mouth. “Sorry, Your Greediness. Finders keepers.”

By the time the dust settled, Genghis stood alone—no corn, no allies, and a very empty stomach.


The Moral (Served with a Side of Humble Pie)

Sir Whiskerton sauntered over, tail flicking. “Well, Genghis? How does absolute monarchy taste?”

Genghis scowled. “Like regret and squirrel saliva.”

Porkchop, ever the philosopher, trotted up with a fresh ear of corn and plopped it in front of Genghis. “Here. Lesson’s simple: greed leaves you empty. Sharing? That’s where the real feast is.”

Genghis stared at the corn, then at the other animals—now happily passing dishes among themselves, laughter ringing through the barn. Even his lackeys had abandoned him for Doris’s famous scrambled eggs.

With a sigh, he took the corn… and shoved it toward the center of the table. “Fine. But next year, I’m stealing the pie first.”

Sir Whiskerton chuckled. “Progress, my pompous friend. Progress.


The End.

Moral: Greed leaves you empty; sharing brings abundance.
Best Line: “I was redistributing it. To my stomach.” – Genghis, probably not invited to potlucks.

No. My concern for the current fiscal quarters of geo-economic turmoil resulting from Americans’ militarization of trade and vandalization of trade systems and infrastructure is heavily outweighed by the irremediable universal distrust of the USA and the now cascading inevitable devastating consequences.

Consequences for the upward 19 out of 20 living everywhere but that 50 state MAGA cesspool?

A few fiscal quarters’ global ‘reconfiguration’. A long overdue unpleasant corrective seachange relegating the US from pivotal to pariah position.

Consequences for the 1 out of 20 whose nation is now incurably terminally ill from MAGA brain cancer? Consequences for those pathetic few whose access to resources, markets, welcome – to opportunity beyond the ‘stars’n’bars’ border – is inexorably shrivelling? Shrivelling at an ever-hastening pace? Projecting their current national trajectory? Their wet dream of ‘soaring to reborn greatness’ is now ‘a failure to launch nosedive into despised irrelevance’.

The cretins in MAGA hats – incl. those wearing those in (liberal) invisible spiritual hats – have, within weeks of gaining absolute control over their executive, legislative and judicial branches, watched as America went from the idiotic self-isolation of their ‘wheeler-dealer’ Prez’ strategy to a now intensifying externally imposed “You want isolation, a**-holes? Here. We will gladly give you isolation.”

Anything broadening, deepening, entrenching the shared global contempt for the American nation and alienates Americans from the civilized world whose rule of law they’ve held themselves above or beyond – is a very very good thing.

In this specific case? Over half of all commercial container vessels currently afloat had their keels laid in China. Over half of all vessels currently on drydock slipways are being built in China – under binding contract. The great majority of those are registered elsewhere. A vast majority are owned elsewhere – often by transnational corporations with shareholders in multiple nations. And their containerized cargos? They’re owned by virtually every nation on earth. The ‘steep fines’ would, at worst, eat into the immediate fiscal quarters’ profits. That’s how long it would take to simply redesignate which ships are scheduled to visit US ports. That’s how long it would take for the American resale chain to exploit their generally clueless customers by “What can we do? It’s all those tariffs and now those fines. Sigh.” shrug.

It’s kinda clear the dominant US retailers – the likes of Walmart (and now Costco?) know the ignorant gullibility of their customer base. It’s unbelievable they are ignorant of the realities underlying the products they buy from China. They’re unlikely to be ignorant of the fact that Chinese manufacturers’ profit margins average under 5%. Meaning they’re unlikely to sincerely believe those firms would (could) offer to pay the 10% inflicted on the average US retail mark-up of +/-100%. Impossible. It’s immoral of them to attempt such a demand. It would be stupidity to expect any fatally self-sacrificing compliance. The almost certain intent of this inane immoral action is to be able to shrug to the US consumer “We did all that we could. It’s those Chinese. Sigh.” Instead of camping out in the White House and GOP Congressional lobbies demanding a stop to this ugly insanity.

Bottom line? Every ugly, stupid, immoral, and in many cases illegal US action just adds cement into America’s own overshoes.

An exposed rock

On May 1, 1999, American climber Conrad Anker noticed a large slab of flat rock while climbing the northern slopes of Mount Everest. However, when Anker moved closer to examine it more closely, he realized that the “rock” was actually the exposed back of George Mallory, a famous British explorer who had disappeared on the mountain about 75 years earlier and who may have been the first person to reach its summit.

https://qph.cf2.quoracdn.net/main-qimg-ad622d8a414433f6dbe194ab2a61b838

The passage of time had deteriorated most of Mallory’s clothing, but the icy conditions of Everest had preserved much of his body, which helped experts reconstruct the final moments of his life. Because Mallory had a broken right leg and arm, and an ice axe was discovered above him, it appeared that he had probably died after a bad fall during the climb. Tragically, his death was probably not quick. Before he expired, Mallory had apparently crossed his uninjured leg over his broken leg to ease the pain, realizing that the idea of ​​being saved was hopeless.

 

As China exports only about 10 to 15% of its exports to the USA, will Trump’s tariffs have much effect on China?

Your numbers are incorrect.

The 10% to 15% represents all companies that (in some way) operate within China, and that exports to the United States.

Most of the companies within that bracketed numbers are American companies, operating within China, but exporting to the Untied States. These companies only utilize Chinese labor, within Chinese soil. They also rely on Chinese supply trains, and Chinese raw materials.

  • Nike
  • iPhone
  • Black and Decker
  • Whirlpool
  • KitchenAid

Thus, this number is incorrect in this particular question.

The number of actual Chinese companies exporting to the United States is much smaller. Perhaps 3% maximum. You probably never heard of many of the brands that the Chinese export, but that is because the United States has banned them.

  • Gree
  • BYD
  • Hi Phi
  • Hisense
  • Redmi
  • Shaomi
  • Huawei

So to fully understand the impact one must recognize that the BIGGEST impact on these Trump Tariffs will be American Companies exporting to the United States from China.

Of course, these tariffs will impact supply chains and the entire world of product manufacture.

But the influence on China will not be as large as one might think.

Looking at the entire situation, we must ask ourselves what will happen?

  • Will China collapse because of this?

No. China has planned for this for decades.

  • Will factories return back to the United States?

Some will. But most will not. It takes time to set up a factory, and the United States is devoid of skilled workers, infrastructure and worker protections. So the factory workers will be expensive, disgruntled, and mercurial.

  • What is likely to happen in the short term?

Factory margins are razor thin (3% tops). The big profit is in retail (35%). The supply chains will still continue out of China and from other nations. But the tariffs will be passed on to the American consumer resulting in a large spike in inflation. This might trigger a depression.

  • What is likely to happen in the long term?

Some factories will set up in the United States, but they will be a minority. It will take years to set up a factory, and Trumps and his policies will change in four years. Companies will probably bear the costs of the large prices, and continue sourcing internationally as their sales volume shrinks.

  • What can mitigate the influence on these tariffs?

If Donald Trump eliminates the Federal Income Tax, most Americans will see an increase in their take home pay, and this will mitigate the impact of the tariffs. I bring this up because some people are talking about this on various channels.

Ginger Beef and Noodle Bowls

Ginger Beef and Noodle Bowls recipe

Yield: 4 servings

Ingredients

  • 1 pound beef flat iron steaks or 1 beef top round steak, cut 3/4 inch thick
  • 1 tablespoon dark sesame oil
  • 2 tablespoons minced fresh ginger
  • 2 large cloves garlic, minced
  • Salt and pepper
  • 2 (13 3/4 to 14 1/2 ounce) cans ready-to-serve beef broth
  • 3/4 cup thinly sliced green onions
  • 2 tablespoons mirin or rice wine vinegar
  • 6 cups cooked fresh Oriental-style thin cut noodles or unseasoned instant ramen noodles
  • 1/2 cup shredded carrots

Instructions

  1. Cut steaks crosswise into 1/4 inch thick strips; cut strips in half. Heat 1/2 tablespoon sesame oil in large nonstick skillet over medium-high heat until hot.
  2. Add ginger and garlic; cook for 1 minute.
  3. Add 1/2 of beef; stir-fry for 2 minutes or until outside surface of beef is no longer pink. Remove from skillet. Repeat with remaining oil and beef. Season with salt and pepper, as desired. Keep warm.
  4. Add broth, green onions and mirin to skillet; bring to a boil. Reduce heat to low; simmer for 8 to 10 minutes.
  5. Meanwhile divide noodles and beef evenly among 4 large soup bowls.
  6. Bring broth mixture to a boil over high heat; ladle boiling mixture evenly over beef and noodles. Garnish with carrots.

Trading has gotten so popular nowadays that you have so much resources on it and this sphere is expanding day by day, and it’s astonishing given the fact that forex market is already worth around 7 trillion, and there is still plenty of room to expand to. Growing popularity of deman of course triggers growing supply of services, as there are much brokers, and of course a lot of resources on education. However, most of those resources are of basic quality, designed just to lure in people, and to get attention people can compose any stories they want, and this have led to a situation where some major myths are ruling the market, and perhaps maybe preventing people from beginning trading. I will try to bring on several popular myths and explain what is the actual matter:

Myth #1. Trading is the same as gambling

This gotta be the most widespread fact, but it’s infact there, and there are many people who think this way or they say they felt it on their own experience. What really happened was that they just saw the graph and decided they can just know where the market is going to go, and when they opened a trade and put out all their money, the market did not go their way and they lost all their money in an instant. It’s true that trading included financial risk, however, if this risk is not controlled, the outcome is going to be sad as in this case right here. Therefore, they claim that they lost money quickly, so they equate it to gambling, having absolutely zero information about this sphere.

The reality of this matter is that trading is far from gambling, even given the elevated risk. For instance, if your local broker allows you to buy Tesla stock, this you would call – investing, which is somehow different, but still the same thing. If the stock goes down and the company has bad press, you can loose the money the same way. In scenario of trading, you are in control. Gambling is not based on anything legit rather than coincidence and luck, in trading – there is no place for sheer luck. Traders spend years on their education, perfecting their skills and practising what they have learned on the chart. Using various methods of different analysis techniques, patterns, and other strategies, they get their profit, and this ain’t gambling for sure.

For instance, you can analyze the Forex market using differnent analysis methods as fundamental: where you look for economic news to get the overall high timeframe movements and technical: to identify entry points and crack open short-term movement. The same goes to trading shares, where a trader would spend a lot of time analyzing the earnings calendar of the company to predict it’s stock price.

Myth #2. Trading is costly, you need a lot of money.

Funny enough, this is an actual scenario for trading real stocks, not CFD as many good brokers offer. See CFD as we talked many times – means that you can trade shares and not worry about owning them, you just trade their price without owning the product, and this makes it so much easier because you don’t deal with all the hassle. Moreoveer, you will get much more leverage on CFD, like 1:20 right here.

So when you try to trade real shares, most places couldn’t even offer 1:2 leverage, it’s mostly 1:1 and this means you would actually need some serious money to make profit. For instance, if you have 1000$ in trading real shares, and the share price moves 10% in a month in your direction, then you get $100 profit, and even less because you would pay the comission and trading fees and all the extra fees. While trading CFD, you get 1:20 leverage which means that with 1000$, you can control a 20k$ position and 10% swing in your way means 2K$ and brokers like Neotrades here only charge for spreads. Of course you would not be opening a position for your whole budget as this would be too risky, but still the opportunities are much more when trading CFD.

Myth #3. CFD trading is only short-term

Well, simply put – it is not. Sure that most people may prefer to trade assets like Forex or Commodities intraday, trading CFDs can be great for long-term as well. For istance, many prefer holding their positions on indices for a long time as they tend to have a continuous trend, and there have been cases of people holding SnP500 index for months and get the whole bullish trend (or bearish). What you will pay is swaps, as the position crosses from one day to another, but this would only be a minor part of the sum.

Myth #4. There’s no Crypto CFDs.

And yep this sounds a bit strange, but I’ve seen some people talk about why they don’t wanna trade crypto. Their reasons was that they don’t wanna get involved in all of that headache with opening wallets and buying cryptos, exchanges, swaps and all those things which are fairly complex for beginners in this sphere, they want to trade cryptos but don’t wanna mess with all the rest that comes when buying or selling them. However, there are crypto CFDs and you won’t need to worry about all of those things, you can just have a trading account and trade crypto as you would trade forex or other assets, as this would be CFD trading, you wouldn’t need to worry about owning the coins, you just trade their prices.

Myth #5. Trading CFDs is too complicated for beginners.

I am not trying to say trading is easy, in fact it’s indeed a complex matter to get into. However, when you get an opportunity to change your life and be able to trade profitable, it means you can trade from wherever you want and whenever you want – this liberation is worth studing and struggling for. What is a myth in this case is that it’s “unlearnable” and this is absolutely wrong, because there are so many educational resources, if you choose the right one, you can learn it, but you gotta give it your whole self.

Myth #6. CFDs are limited to only some assets, like Forex and Stocks.

And surely this is not true indeed, because when I was opening a buy position on OIL earlier this day, they must have delivered a couple of barrels into my apartment LOL. But there are CFDs for almost all asset classes, and CFD brokers only offer this type of trading, so you just trade the price without actually owning anything, and this is much more convenient. This is the main reason why brokers can provide some lucrative leverage.

Myth #7. Trading is about getting rich quick..

This is perhaps the most dangerous misconception about trading which has cost a fortune to many, many people. If you wanna get rich and you open a trade on GOLD and you go all in, and somehow you get some profit, the next is going to be loss, because it turns into gambling, which actually is bound to a myth number 1. Trading is never gambling, but illiterate trades can turn it into gambling, but real trading that leads you to stable profit is never about gambling. So if you want to trade because you wanna get rich overnight, save yourself the trouble and don’t even start.

Nothing here is investment advice, either on the landing page or the Terms of Service page. Don’t follow anything without thoroughly researching it.

Contemporary naval warfare will also be beyond-visual-range combat.

The Chinese Navy’s YJ-21 has a range of more than 1,500 kilometers (930 miles), beyond visual range.

Simply put, ‘I can hit you, but you can’t hit me.’

Now, China’s new stealth fighter threatens to end U.S. air superiority, stripping NATO forces of their ability to operate effectively.

Ukraine War underscores this vulnerability.

Despite strong situational awareness capabilities, NATO-supplied armoured vehicles have struggled to gain an advantage over Russia without air support. In many cases, they have even struggled to defend themselves.

NATO’s navy is also set to suffer. This is because two configurations of China’s new stealth fighter are respectively designed for Air Force and Navy, similar to the J-20 and J-35 programs.

If this is the case, NATO forces could soon lose air superiority on both land and sea.

In such a scenario, NATO fleets might encounter a situation even more precarious than what Iraq faced against the U.S. Air Force—overwhelmed by swarms of Chinese drones.

China’s Record breaking 10,000 drone show creates HD ‘screens’ in the sky

The strategic balance between the United States and China has shifted.

Until the U.S. can field its own sixth-generation fighter to counter China, it will never dare to call the shot of World War III.

After China test-flew sixth-generation aircraft, some officials in the US claimed the B21 is a sixth-generation aircraft—although the B21 is an excellent bomber and undoubtedly a component of future US air combat systems, labeling it as a fighter jet is quite amusing.

China’s sixth-generation fighter jets have already been mass-produced, unlike the United States’ sixth-generation fighter jets which are still on the PPT in the Oval Office.

For example, the serial number of this J-36 fighter jet is 36011, which means that this is the 11th J-36 fighter jet.

Trump promised that F47 could be completed during his term and be cheaper than the F22. Currently, the likelihood of achieving this is slim, given the absence of even an engineering validation model.

And during the time it takes the U.S. to catch up, China’s researchers are unlikely to remain idle.

After all, if conflict in the Taiwan Strait becomes unavoidable, it will be a war that China is determined to win.

Jurassic Pork

Written in response to: Center your story around a character who’s struggling to let go.

Joshua G. J. Insole

This story contains themes or mentions of physical violence, gore, or abuse.

In the distance, the T. rex roared like a man stubbing his toe on the coffee table after getting up to pee at night.Marsh Buckley’s gut dropped, a Jeep falling from a tree. Unlike a few unfortunate souls in their party, they’d scraped through the last encounter. Who knew toilets could be so dangerous? Marsh wrapped his arms around the kids’ shoulders. ‘Now, don’t you worry, kiddos. I recognise that roar, I learned it in dinosaur school. What he’s saying is, “I am sufficiently full for the foreseeable future. I wouldn’t even contemplate chowing down on a couple of children.”’The kids did not return his smile. Johnny Wintringham, the youngest, frowned up at him, disbelieving. The boy seemed to look right through his disguise. Bridget, meanwhile, continued to stare straight ahead with wide, unseeing eyes. She looked like a Vietnam vet suffering war flashbacks. Bridget moved, zombie-like, through the prehistoric undergrowth wherever Marsh and Johnny directed her. But she hadn’t uttered a syllable since the rex bit that poor chap in two whilst he was going number two.Marsh chewed his lower lip. Hm. This dilemma was a tricky one. He’d gone from sharing a ride with them to becoming their guardian by proxy during the carnage. He’d even started to like them. And now, here they were, survivors one day later. They struggled with the previous day’s events – what with all the dinosaurs and death. Marsh had gotten their bodies through it. But what would Grandpa say if he returned the kids in a dissociated state? No, Marsh had to get their minds through it, too. He cast his thoughts back to his childhood to try to recall how being a kid feels. What would have helped him? All he remembered was rough-housing and—That was it!The best way to help kids during traumatic events was to prank them and make them laugh. All would be well if the kids were chipper when they returned to the lodge. Marsh grinned as he pulled back the leathery fronds of a tree to make way for Bridget.Johnny guided her through the branches, pausing to wipe the spittle that had pooled on her chin. ‘C’mon, this way, Bridge. You’ll see that once we get back to the lodge, everything will be all right. Why, I’m sure Grandpa has already sellotaped that nice man back together.’Marsh debated letting go of the branch and letting it swing back to swat the siblings right in their faces. That would be a laugh. But no, they were already banged up, with cuts, scrapes, and bruises adorning their bodies. He let the idea go instead of the branch. There had to be a funnier prank to lift their spirits – no physical pain. It wouldn’t be proper at a time like this. But he had to do something before they returned, and he had to do it soon. If his calculations were correct, the lodge was beyond this hill. Marsh let the children pass and followed them, allowing the branch to swish behind him.They fought through the ancient foliage for a few more minutes before the trees opened onto a field. Johnny – in the lead – froze in place, blocking the way. ‘Uh oh.’Marsh’s fried nerves crackled. What now? He pushed past Bridget, rejecting the hilarious idea of shoving her into the bushes. He came up alongside the boy. ‘What? What is—’There stood a huge beast, but not of the saurischian variety. The electric fences towered 24 feet high. The thick, metal posts had high-tensile wires strung out between them. The gaps in the wires made the structure look like the skeleton of some mechanical dinosaur. The cold, utilitarian design contrasted with the surrounding green jungles. The air here held the lingering notes of ozone, which danced above the forest’s perfumes.Marsh paused, mouth open, brow creased. He should’ve thought about this, but he hadn’t. During the chaotic events, it had slipped his mind. Seeing that the fences failing had started this mess, he should have remembered them. Their tour of the park from the comfort of their Jeeps had turned into a nightmare because of those damn fences. Why, the very image of the T. rex snapping his enclosure’s cables had seared itself right into Marsh’s—

Wait a second.

The power for the electric fences had gone down during the storm; they posed no danger whatsoever. But, given little Johnny’s reaction, the boy hadn’t put two and two together yet. And Bridget was, at the moment, unable to tie her shoelaces. A plan began to form in Marsh’s mind. A grin crept onto his face, and he fought to suppress it. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘you kids wait here. I’m going to go check it out. If it’s safe, I’ll call you up.’

Bridget stared ahead, eyes glazed over, jaw slack like a cow chewing the cud. Johnny looked alarmed but didn’t stop him. The boy only said, ‘Please be careful, Mr Buckley.’

Marsh turned from the children and allowed the smirk to find its home on his face. Crouching, casting well-acted furtive glances from side to side, he approached the fences. ‘Oh man,’ he chuckled under his breath. ‘This is gonna be great.’

A black-and-red warning sign dangled from the fence. It read: ‘DANGER 10,000 VOLTS’. Next to it was a symbol of a human hand with a lightning bolt passing through it.

Marsh was so excited that his hair was prickling up. The humming chatter in his head grew in volume. He reached for one of the cables with two open hands. He glanced one final time over his shoulder. ‘Don’t try this at home, kids.’

Johnny’s eyes widened. He jumped forward, flapping his hand like a kid gone mad. ‘WAIT—’

But Marsh didn’t. He was already getting into character to play the part of the electrocuted man. And so, Marsh made the final mistake of his life. He grabbed the wire in both fists instead of testing the fence with the back of his hand.

In the background, Johnny continued to scream. ‘—LIGHT’S STILL ON, THE LIGHT’S STILL ON!’

Marsh gasped as his fleshy human frame completed the circuit. A freight train of electricity shot up his arms, burning his flesh and making his nerves scream. Every muscle in his body seized up – glueing him to the fence. His hands started to cook, melting like cheese on a burger. He tried to scream, but his chest muscles had tightened too much to let air escape.

There was a loud snap like God clicking his fingers, followed by a steady fizzing sound. Sparks jumped from the fence, offering sharp, staccato cracks of miniature lightning.

Marsh wanted to let go, but he couldn’t. The muscles in his hands had responded to the stimulation, locking him in a death grip with the fence. Shock immobilised him, scrambling his thoughts. Marsh shook, boogied, and jived as 10,000 volts raced through him. His hair caught fire. His eyes exploded like cherry bombs filled with red jelly. His heart beat its face against its cell bars until it had a black eye, a broken nose, missing teeth, and a concussion. His insides barbecued.

Nearby, Johnny shrieked. Bridget, shocked out of her comatose state, joined him. The kids’ screams harmonised, and – not too far away – the rex joined with a lovely bass melody. The crackling of human skin offered a syncopated rhythm.

Marsh whined as he fried. Here, in the end, he realised there were times when jokes were inappropriate. And if you insisted on being a jokester despite the poor timing, you ought to expect a roasting. He struggled with every fibre of his being – which was now on fire – to let go. Marsh tried and failed; his muscles were too contracted to fight.

The reek of burning hair and flesh overwhelmed the forest’s floral aroma. Marsh’s boiling fluids added an acrid odour. It was like overcooked pork mixed with an electrical fire at a wig factory.

Marsh, who’d survived both T. rexes and falling Jeeps, died as the fence microwaved his brain into soup.

Defunct Relics

Written in response to: Write a story from the POV of a now-defunct piece of technology.

Patrick D

In a old Canadian attic, a forgotten Royal typewriter and an original Nintendo reminisced about their glory days.“Remember Christmas 1985! When they unwrapped us?“Unforgettable! They were so excited they nearly broke us getting us out of our boxes! There was wrapping paper everywhere, and Back to the Future was playing on the TV, ” said Nintendo.“We were superstars; I was the most popular typewriter that year.”“And I was the most advanced entertainment system ever made, state-of-the-art! Shoppers would fist fight over me, I was mandatory under ever tree!”“Have some humility Nintendo,” laughed Royal. “I’ll admit you were highly addictive, Chris played games until his thumbs were callused,”“And Kristen must have written 1000 stories on you,” said Nintendo. “We had many great years with them, didn’t we?”“Ten wonderful years Nintendo, I thought it would never end, until we were knocked off our pedestal by Super Nintendo and the PC, who would have seen that coming?”

“I suppose we’re lucky, we weren’t thrown away,” said Nintendo, “How long has it been?”

“Thirty-five years Nintendo. At least Chris still plays with you occasionally, Kristen hasn’t written a story on me in decades. We would write the most epic tales together, one of her stories was published in The New Yorker.”

Nintendo sensed a vibration. “It’s coming.”

Royal and Nintendo watched from the window as the dump truck pulled up, a man stepped off the back and threw the garbage in, a discarded vacuum cleaner pleaded for it’s life, but it was futile the vacuum was tossed in with the rest.”

“Poor vacuum,” said Nintendo.

“That’s our fate Nintendo, one day that truck will take us to the landfill, and we will never return.”

***

One Sunday afternoon the attic hatch opened. Royal and Nintendo watched in anticipation to see who was coming up. The ladder extended down and Kristen climbed up, followed by her daughter Gina.

“You can have this space for your writing,” said Kristen, “nice and private.”

Gina took in the room, “it smells like old books up here, I love it!”

Royal focused on Kristen, longing for her attention.

We’ll put things in three piles, garbage, Salvation Army, and keepers,” said Kristen.

“Garbage!” Exclaimed Royal.

“The Salvation Army? Royal what is that?”

“We’ll be drafted into some sort of war Nintendo!”

Kristen picked up Royal and blew the dust off, “My old typewriter, I really should donate it.”

Gina could see the look of nostalgia on her mother’s face, “Does it still work?”

“I think so, I’d have to buy ink for it, not even sure if they sell it anymore.”

“Can I have it?”

“Sure.” Kristen placed Royal back on the table.

“I think Gina just saved my life Nintendo!”

Kristen and Gina began handing down boxes to Chris. After they cleared the debris, they laid down a rug, hung posters and Christmas lights for ambience.

Royal and Nintendo looked around in approval, “Enchanting,” remarked Royal.

“I’m going to come up here all the time,” said Gina.

“I would have killed for a space like this when I was your age. Come on, let’s go make something to eat.” Kristen and Gina climbed down and closed the hatch behind them, and their voices moved out of range.

“We survived another round of cleanup,” Said Nintendo.

“Seems we did.”

“They couldn’t get rid of us, could they? We’re state of the art.”

“I’m afraid we’re not Nintendo, we are one trick ponies, these new machines serve multiple purposes now.”

Royal and Nintendo watched Chris take the boxes from the attic to the road, the act of placing something at the curb seems to summon the street scavengers, who appear out of nowhere.

“Where does all that stuff end up?”

“God knows Nintendo, the dump truck will claim what they leave.”

***

Gina and Kristen returned the following weekend. Kristen had a stack of paper and a new ink-ribbon, she placed the paper on the table and opened up Royal to installed it.

“What’s happening?” Asked Nintendo

“I’m coming out of retirement!”

Kristen inserted a piece of paper and rolled the knob until it was in place, she pressed keys at random.

“I can feel the ink running through my veins Nintendo! Just a few more key strokes” The letters became brighter with each passing, until they shined midnight black.

Kristen gave Gina a tutorial. “With typewriters you have to put a little more thought into your writing, it’s not easy to correct mistakes.”

After Kristen was happy with her lesson, she kissed Gina on the head and climbed down the attic hatch.

Gina stayed all night, typing away at Royal. “Why did people stop using these, they’re so fun.”

“I have no idea!” Answered Royal.

Nintendo was living vicariously through Royal, “I’m happy for you, my friend!”

“Thank you, Nintendo. feels nice to be appreciated.”

***

Royal looked down on the driveway, Kristen’s car was gone she had taken Gina somewhere. They must be out getting me more ink, thought Royal.

Moments later Chris opened the attic hatch and climbed up, he grabbed Nintendo and Royal and brought them downstairs and placed them in a box by the front door. All the garbage from Christmas was waiting there to be taken out.

Nintendo looked at the garbage bags and came undone, “we’re being thrown out Royal! This is outrageous! I’m a state-of-the-art entertainment system! He can’t!”

“Let’s meet our end with dignity Nintendo, we knew this day would come. Whatever horrors await us at the landfill we will face together.”

Chris was putting city tags on the extra garbage bags when the doorbell rang. Chris picked up the box with Royal and Nintendo and opened the door.

A man was standing there.

“It’s the garbage man, you son of a bitch Chris,” screamed Nintendo.

“Hi Dave?” asked Chris.

“Yes, hi Chris, we spoke on the phone, nice to meet you.”

Chris set the box down in front of him, “so, you collect 80’s merch?”

“Yes, I collect everything 80’s.” The man picked up Nintendo and Royal, appraising them both. “I’ll give you $150 for the Nintendo and games and $100 for the typewriter.”

‘We agreed on $225 for the Nintendo and games over the phone.”

“I’m sorry but it’s not in mint condition.”

“We’re being sold Nintendo!”

Chris’s attention shifted when Kristen and Gina pulling into the driveway.

Gina got out first and the man moved aside for her. Out of her periphery, she noticed Royal, “Dad don’t sell the typewriter, I’ve been using it!”

“$125 for the typewriter.” The man intervened.

“Dad!”

Kristen stepped in when she realized what was happening, “I’m sorry there’s been a mistake, that typewriter is not for sale, it’s mine.” Kristen grabbed the typewriter and gave Chris a cross look on her way in with Gina in toe.

“Nintendo!!!” Royal screamed as they were separated.

“$200 for the Nintendo and games,” the man countered.

Nintendo used every ounce of his being to telepathically project two words into Chris’s mind: DON’T SELL.

Chris held his Nintendo in his hands. The man reached out, which made Chris instinctively pull away, and that seemed to wake him up, “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but I can’t sell it.”

The man held eye contact with Chris, “What?”

Chris realized he had to make a concession, he pulled a twenty-dollar-bill from his wallet. “I’m very sorry about all this, take this is for your time and gas.”

The man reluctantly took the bill; he mumbled something under his breath as he walked back to his car.

Chris went back in the house where he was verbally abused by Kristen, Gina, Royal and Nintendo. He returned Royal and Nintendo back to the attic.

“Can you believe it Nintendo? The magic power of nostalgia! We are collector’s items; we’ll never see the landfill!”

“State-of-the-art!” Replied Nintendo.

Just to give an idea of what can be done, here is some context – I started smoking when I was 13. Started to smoke almost a pack a day. The last day I smoked I smoked 3 packs. Don’t be surprised that was my regular diet. It used to go up, if I was in a party or stressed more than usual. My parents and wife had given up that I will ever leave smoking, neither I thought of ever leaving it. Most of people around me are like I will kick this habit next Saturday, next month, next year. I on the other hand never thought about it. I just did it out of habit and never guilt tripped or anything.

And one day I just announced a day that I will leave smoking forever. So after 18 years of smoking, the final day came. By the habit or way I had been programmed, I bought the packet from the same shop, before I realized this is the day that I had announced to leave smoking. I returned that packet to the shop, he was not happy at all because he was losing his most loyal customer 🙂 He even offered me credit for a month to keep going.

The first day was good, felt confident that it is better etc. But the very next day, I started to feel anxious, sad, angry all at the same time. Made it worse, when I was stressed in office I used to go out to smoke, but now i didn’t so all those emotions started showing up. After few days I realized that all those times when I was pissed off at everything else going around in my life, cigarette used to calm me down or that’s what I thought.

Another change that started to happen was I started coughing a lot, I mean a lot like I had TB or something. At one point I thought I coughed up a black gooey stuff. My parents started telling me that I should quit smoking. I told them that I did but no one believed me, unfortunately they still don’t 🙁

It had been 3 months since I had smoked. One of close colleagues from college who I was meeting after a few years, persuaded me to have a drag for old times sake. I obliged thinking I am strong enough, and once the first puff went in, the taste of it, yuck.. I remember looking at the cigarette and thinking, how the heck did I smoke 50 of these in a day. That was my last puff.

I have been clean for 2 years now. I sometimes feel like it, and because of leaving cigarette I have also left drinking tea because I think it still triggers me. I still miss smoking when the first rain happens, when I go on a roadtrip with my friends. One other thing that has happened is my taste for food has returned, some of the things that I had never noticed almost my whole life (appreciating my wife’s cooking more now).

I still go out on smoke breaks with my colleagues because non-smokers are not rewarded for the healthy habits anyways 🙂

If you want to stop smoking don’t think too much of it as a bad habit, just think of it as another thing that you won’t be doing from tomorrow. You will have withdrawals but that’s ok. All the best!

Patience and observation can solve even the most puzzling problems

Yes and No-

We have have 2 children, one is a great child, normal, we went through some issues in teenage years but nothing beyond what I would consider teenage behavior. Then we have the oldest, she has made our lives miserable since she was 8. We have taken her to countless doctors, therapist, behavior specialist, metal health facilities, etc. Always the squeaky wheel, always got more attention then the other child.

My husband and I both have seen counselors and therapists to try and figure out what WE were doing or saying wrong. How to handle the problem child. We finally told her to leave just to have some peace in our home. Tried to have an arms length relationship once she moved out.

Even as an adult she is one of the most evil and manipulative people we have ever known.Still trying to figure out where we went wrong but doctors tell us some people are just “wired wrong” and she has diagnosed mental health issues and refuse to take the meds Doctors prescribe-She says that’s our way of trying to control her.

So Yes we regret having a child like that and No we don’t regret having our 2nd child

Cheating Wife Served Divorce Papers

Up until 2015, there was a Superpower – USA & 3 Regional Powers – Russia (Europe), China & Japan (Asia)

Today there are no more Superpowers

There are three GREAT POWERS – USA, Russia & China

Why is China a great power?

A. Regional Deterrence

Russia, US and China are the only three countries in the world who can defend themselves from any enemy on Air, Water & Land

Everyone else is Vulnerable to attack

B. Economic Potential

China controls over 70% of the Global Supply Chains when it comes to High Grade & Advanced Manufacturing. As India learnt to its cost, Modernization = China

You cannot modernize without China

C. Financial Clout

With a $ 20 Trillion Savings base & a Fiscal Space for nearly 20 Trillion Yuan ($ 3 Trillion) – China has sufficient fuel to drive the next 15–20 years at 3.75% growth and double their GDP by 2045

Meanwhile their Debt at 77% GDP is under control and their interest on Debt is a paltry 7% of their Revenue & 11.75% on their Expenditure, the lowest among all G20 nations

D. Indigenous Defence Manufacturing

From a mere 140 Suppliers in 1996 , China has close to 93,000 Listed Suppliers today who supply almost 96% of the components, materials and designs that China needs for advanced manufacturing

Even the US has its 78,000 Suppliers distributed across the world – including 72 of them in China

This means during a war, Chinas rate of production can tower above all of NATO easily

By comparison India which had 34 Suppliers in 1996 still has only 1200+ Suppliers in 2024 and has a Localisation rate of less than 20% for Advanced Equipment

E. Technology

The Migration of Knowledge is moving from MIT & Stanford to Tsinghua and Zhejiang

In 2010 – 76% of Pioneering Research in the 14 Critical Areas came out of the US & less than 2% from China

By 2024 – Only 46% of Pioneering Research in the 14 Critical Areas is coming from the US & a whopping 31% is coming from China

The Gap is much closer and China is expected to take lead by 2030 -2035


So China is a Great Power rather than an Emerging Power

Rosemary Roast Chicken

Ready to take plain roast chicken up a notch? Try this honey-and-rosemary roasted version, tastily trimmed with thick slices of squash and onion.

Rosemary Roast Chicken

Prep: 20 min | Bake: 1 hr 55 min | Yield: 6 servings

Ingredients

  • 3 to 3 1/2 pound whole broiler-fryer chicken
  • 1 1/2 pounds buttercup or acorn squash, peeled and cut into 1/2 inch rings or slices, then cut crosswise in half
  • 2 medium onions, cut into 1 inch wedges (2 cups)
  • 1/2 cup butter or margarine, melted
  • 1/4 cup lemon juice
  • 2 tablespoons honey
  • 2 teaspoons dried rosemary leaves, crumbled
  • 1 clove garlic, finely chopped

Instructions

  1. Heat oven to 375 degrees F.
  2. Fold wings of chicken under back.
  3. Tie or skewer drumsticks together.
  4. Place chicken, breast side up, on rack in shallow roasting pan.
  5. Arrange squash and onions around chicken.
  6. In small bowl, mix remaining ingredients; brush on chicken and vegetables just until evenly coated.
  7. Reserve remaining butter mixture.
  8. Insert meat thermometer in chicken so tip is in thickest part of inside thigh muscle and does not touch bone.
  9. Roast uncovered for 1 hour.
  10. Brush remaining butter mixture on chicken and vegetables.
  11. Cover loosely with foil to prevent overbrowning.
  12. Bake 45 to 55 minutes longer or until thermometer reads 180 degrees F. Juice of chicken will no longer pink when center of thigh is cut and squash is tender.

Notes

Cube any leftover chicken and add to Traditional Bread Dressing for a quick one-dish meal.

Add steamed broccoli spears or green beans to make your meal complete.

Do you even understand what universal healthcare means? There are NO medical bills! All healthcare is funded by taxes. Sprained ankle, heart attack, long term cancer treatment, EVERYTHING is provided FREE at the point of service.

What kind of fucked up, third world country would not have universal healthcare? Oooohhhh wait……

I’m sorry, how could the questioner think that 75 Type 055 destroyers would be built? Currently, only 8 have been built, and even according to uncertain sources, it will increase to 14.

According to the American military judgment, similar Ticonderoga-class missile cruisers have only been built for 27 ships, ignoring the 5 ships without vertical launch systems, which is only 22 ships.

This thing is very expensive, and it is impossible to build so many.

Similar to the Burke-class destroyer is the Type 052D destroyer, of which 27 have been built; the Type 054A frigate, which is the smaller one, theyt have been built 40, totaling about 67 ships.

There are currently 74 Burke-class destroyers.

The total number of launch silos of the Burke-class destroyer’s vertical launch system is more than the previous two (96 vs 64/32), and it has a number advantage.

For the US Navy, the Burke-class destroyer is a very cost-effective warship, and they are not behind.

Being nice to a woman, SHE said! you sleep on the couch. Wash room is there, And don’t go near my door. I own a gun.

About 5am she came out in a nightie and panties and my boxers couldn’t hide my surprise.

HER words exactly ( all the fuc*ing men in the world, and I brought the nice guy home ).

We had three kids, thirteen granddaughters, and at the moment Three great granddaughter.

She never meet the great grands.

All the fuc*ing women in the world, why did she pass first

Shorpy

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I had a cough.

It wouldn’t go away, so the doctor (who I saw for free) thought I should get an xray.

This was done (for free) and they noticed I had a crack in one of my vertebrae so fearing it could be something more serious I was sent for a bone scan.

This was also done for free.

Thankfully nothing serious, but if it was, my treatment would have continued for free until either I was healed or dead.

My neighbours wife was American.

They were so terrified of going to the doctors, because usually that would mean crippling debt that they just didn’t go as often as she should have.

She died of heart failure.

Could have had a heart transplant – for free!

About four decades ago I worked for American Koyo in Orangeburg, SC.

The Japanese revere their elderly for their wisdom and experience.

They don’t force them into retirement if they are willing to keep working.

Their institutional knowledge is highly valued and people actively seek and value their advice.

At home, they are treated with honor by their families and friends.

Their stories and advice are, once again, sought after.

Their stories provide a history of the family that survives through the generations.

Musk will be old before he knows it.

My wish for him is to be surrounded by people who think just like he does.

There is nothing US can do about China’s resistance to protectionism.

On US tariffs and sanctions, China has shown it is willing and able to counter them. Its approach is nuanced and selective.

China is opening up its economy. It is the world’s manufacturing hub, the centre of supply chain, and the No.1 trader with the most number of countries of the largest quantity and widest variety of goods. What it does will have global impact.

Globalization is part of this impact, directly via the supply-chain network, and a function of the growing trade and investment with it. The significant trend is the new globalization of production across borders around Chinese companies expanding overseas, and with links to the supply chain in China.

In contrast is the trend of isolation in the US, consequent upon its protectionist tendency, and especially, the universal tariffs.

The new globalization fits in with the development of the multi-polar world.

Chinese people only believe in strength.
You countries like Britain, France, Germany—these pitifully small and weak nations—actually dared to invade China?

Do you know how much harm this caused China?!

Do you even understand??!!

You don’t get it!

But we Chinese people do!

From now on, we Chinese only trust ourselves.

Army, navy, air force, and nuclear weapons.

We will never allow China’s industrial power to be less than 50% of the world’s total.

We will never allow any country to pose even the slightest threat to China.

You countries—Britain, Germany, France, and the rest—you can survive, but we won’t allow you to have even 5% of China’s military capability.

Not convinced?

Then take your time and try. We don’t care.

The entirety of Europe isn’t allowed to have 20% of China’s military strength.

If you exceed that? We’ll deal with you the same way you dealt with us back then.

If you’re not convinced, go ahead and try!

Bless Me, Father, for I Have Sinned

Submitted into Contest #287 in response to: Write a story with a character pouring out their emotions. view prompt

Michael Jefferson

Seventy-two-year-old Father Ronin McIntire shuffles alongside Killian Coyle, the director of White Birch Hospice Care. Balding and quietly spoken, with tranquil blue eyes peering out from behind round, steel-rimmed glasses, Ronin listens attentively to Killian.“After all these years, Ronin, you’re still putting in twice as many hours as the rest of the staff. You’ve been running on fumes ever since COVID. You used to look like a linebacker, but now you’re a string bean. You should take some time to rest and take care of yourself.”“The patients need me.”“You’ve undoubtedly heard the rumor that White Birch may not be here much longer because we’re running out of money. It’s true.”“All the more reason to help as many souls as possible.”***Weakened by heart disease, eighty-four-year-old Brandon Bohm manages to croak, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned… So much pain just to breathe…”

Ronin leans over his bed. “Is there something I can do? Perhaps a special prayer?”

“…Just listen…”

***

Brandon grinds his teeth, stepping on the car’s accelerator.

“Promise me you’ll take your medication, Beth.”

“But it makes me sleepy.”

A tall, attractive, gray-eyed brunette with undeniable style and poise, Beth is the envy of all the wives whenever Brandon can coax her into attending one of Arlington Financial’s lavish parties.

“You need to pay attention to your mental health,” Brandon scolds. “I don’t want you wandering around the neighborhood naked again.”

“The neighbors didn’t mind. Some of them took pictures.”

“This isn’t a joke, Beth.”

Beth cups her head in her hands, sobbing. “You’re still punishing me for Albert. How many times do I have to say I’m sorry?”

“You left our son alone to toy with the mailman.”

“…We were only talking,” Beth says between tears.

“You were flirting while our son walked out the back door, fell in the pool, and drowned.”

“…And I’ve been paying for it ever since…”

“You smoke three packs a day. You don’t eat,” Brandon snaps. “You walk around the house talking and laughing to yourself, and you see things that aren’t there. You’ve had so many afflictions the psychiatrist can’t keep up with them. You’re making yourself sick so people will pity you, and you’ll get more attention. And you know what? That makes me sick.”

Brandon pulls the car into Rexall’s parking lot. He bounds out of the car but stops short, sniffing the air.

“I smell anti-freeze. Must have a leak. Why don’t you get your prescription while I check.”

“Aren’t you worried I’ll dance around naked in the aisles?”

“Just go.”

Brandon lifts the hood of the car, checking the engine.

A battered Chevy parks near the store’s front door. Leaving the car running, a jittery man with a big nose exchanges glances with Brandon before skulking inside.

A loud pop stops Brandon from playing Mr. Fix It.

The jittery man runs out of the door, dashing to his car. Smoking the wheels, he speeds off.

The store’s pharmacist races outside. Spotting Brandon, he yells, “Call 9-1-1! We’ve been robbed, and he shot a woman!”

***

Brandon struggles to speak, his voice a whisper. “…I’ve been living with the guilt for over forty years…”

“It’s difficult to care for a loved one with mental illness,” Ronin replies, patting Brandon’s hand.

“…Her doctor called after the funeral… He’d found a tumor in Beth’s x-rays. It had been pressing against her skull… He said the tumor and her guilt were why she acted so strangely…”

“It’s not your fault, my son.”

“…Yes, it is… I couldn’t take her behavior anymore. I hired that man to shoot Beth…”

***

Brandon Bohm’s confession hangs heavy over Ronin, who reminds himself that he’s duty-bound to keep it a secret.

Brandon’s secret dies with him two days later.

***

Lionel Liversay’s criminal past is well-known. He served twenty-five years for poisoning a co-worker. Now sixty-six, Lionel needs a heart transplant, but his reputation and his rare blood type have left him with little hope of getting one.

Ronin and Lionel eye each other guardedly as they sip their tea.

“This stuff takes nasty, but at least it’s warm,” Lionel complains.

Ronin makes the sign of the cross over Lionel.

“You should save your piety for someone who believes in that crap,” Lionel says.

“It’s never too late to give yourself to the Lord, my son.”

“Sure, if it’s Jack Lord, Jon Lord, or Majorie Lord.”

“Still defiant, still cynical, even at this stage,” Ronin comments. “Who hurt you, Lionel?”

“…Everyone…”

***

Logan Liversay musses his brother’s hair, punching him on the arm. Now that he’s sixteen and hanging out with the cool kids in school, Logan has stepped up his lifetime harassment of his twelve-year-old brother.

“What’s that you’re doin’, squirt? You playin’ mad scientist again? You know, all the kids at school think you’re a weirdo, a dork. You’re actin’ like Doctor Frankenstein is messin’ up my action with the girls, and I’m getting funny looks from the guys on the basketball team ‘cause of you. You need to straighten up and fly right.”

Lionel ignores his brother, mixing the chemicals he’s created with his chemistry set.

“You hear me, squirt? Maybe you’ll hear this!” Logan says, punching Lionel on the arm.

“OW!”

Lionel’s arm jerks backward, the solution in the test tube splashing onto Logan’s arm.

Logan shrieks, “You psycho! You burned me!”

Lionel turns his head in time to see his brother’s fist hit him.

When Logan is finished beating his brother, all that remains of Lionel’s chemistry set are bits of broken glass.

 

Lionel and Logan sit quietly at the dinner table as their parents scream at each other from one end of the house to the other. Her eyes blackened, their mother leaves, never to be seen again.

The rest of Luther Liversay’s dinner consists of the three tumblers of Vodka he drinks while belittling his sons and cursing his departed spouse.

“You’re a useless little ant, you know that, Lionel?” Luther grumbles. “You think all that scientific mumbo jumbo and those little test tubes are gonna help you make a living?”

“Maybe I could cure cancer someday. Maybe I could help you if you ever get sick.”

“Me? I’m healthy as a horse. It’s you who looks sickly.”

Luther wobbles as he rises from his chair.

“…I got a cure for you…”

Grabbing Lionel by his long hair, Luther pulls his head back, pouring a glass of vodka down his throat.

Lionel gags.

“Don’t you dare puke! Don’t waste good booze!”

Luther’s anger fails to subside, even after Lionel mixes him another drink.

Logan gobbles down his dinner so he won’t have to be in the same room as his father and brother. Later that evening, he doubles over, complaining about stomach cramps. Over the next few days, he becomes violently ill.

As the paramedics carry Logan to the ambulance, Lionel whispers, “Bye, squirt.”

Logan falls into a coma on his way to the hospital. He dies two days later.

***

Within a week, Luther develops the same agonizing stomach pains as his late son and is taken to the hospital.

Lionel can’t hide his joy as he watches his father try to contain his pain.

“What are you grinning at, you useless ant?”

“Maybe I can help you.”

Luther can only summon enough strength to ball up his fists.

“You did this to me. You and your test tubes and your potions.”

“Yep. Like I said, I could help you… But I won’t.”

Luther lingers for another day as his intestines dissolve.

Luther’s autopsy reveals traces of hydrofluoric acid. Lionel tells the doctors that Luther, a metal worker, had probably been exposed to it while on the job.

***

Lionel boomerangs through the child services system, returning to an orphanage whenever his latest family becomes too sick to care for him or one of his science experiments blows up his room.

After working in numerous pharmacies, Lionel works as a lab assistant at Medix Chemical Company. When Lionel offers to make coffee for his coworkers, they merely view it as a kind gesture.

***

Lionel tells Father McIntire he might have gone on to become a Nobel Prize winner if he hadn’t kept a diary.

Lionel made Roger Ratelle a cup of Earl Grey tea on a Monday morning. He found the taste so sour that he only took a mouthful before throwing it away. Telling their supervisor he felt ill, Ratelle left work. He began to hallucinate, crashed his car, and was eventually taken to hospital. He died on Tuesday.

A second co-worker, Mitzi LeForge, was admitted to the hospital on Wednesday with numb legs, breathing difficulties, and chest pains. Her skin was so tender she couldn’t bear the weight of the bed sheets, and all her hair fell out. But LeForge survived, and when the police questioned her, she mentioned feeling sick after drinking a cup of coffee Lionel had given her.

The police searched Lionel’s apartment and found twelve pages of notes describing how he’d poisoned Ratelle and LeForge. They also found four types of poison in his kitchen.

“But you only served time for Roger Ratelle’s murder,” Ronin notes.

Lionel sips his tea. “Yeah. Luckily, the police only found my notes on Ratelle and LeForge, not my diary. Still, I figure I did a year for everybody I poisoned.”

Lionel yawns. “Don’t you have a christening or catechism class? I’m tired. I need a nap.”

“I’ll leave you alone then. Make sure you finish your tea. It’ll be good for you.”

***

The next afternoon, Killian stops Ronin in the hallway. Killian, who keeps an unlit vape pen in his mouth to pacify his urge to smoke, earnestly bites down on its stem.

“Lionel Liversay passed last night. He had a convulsion. It wasn’t pretty or pleasant. Shame. I got word earlier today that they’d found a compatible subject for the heart transplant he needed. He would have recovered if he’d hung on for a few more hours.”

***

A few days later, Killian knocks on Ronin’s office door.

Killian’s vape pipe points at Ronin like a divining rod searching for water. “I know you’re busy, but can you talk to Homer today? He doesn’t have any family or friends. The doctors say he’s got dementia. Homer can’t remember his own life, so he makes things up. Yesterday, he told me he was there when President McKinley was shot.”

“He probably means Kennedy,” Ronin says.

“He said McKinley’s wife, Ida, had epilepsy, and one time, when she had a fit at dinner, McKinley threw a handkerchief over her face, hoping the guests wouldn’t notice. The way Homer tells a story makes it sound like he really was there.”

“I’d expect that from a man with no last name who signed himself in and paid in cash. He enjoys being a man of mystery.”

***

Homer is one of those lucky individuals who looks infinitely younger than he probably is. The nurses have a pool to guess his age, which they estimate is between fifty-five and eighty. He has the nimble body of a gymnast, an abundant shock of styled silver hair, and his face is wrinkle-free. His tender brown eyes develop a playful glint whenever he tells one of his outrageous stories.

“Are you in pain, Homer? Feeling foggy?”

“I felt far worse at Shiloh.”

“The Battle of Shiloh was in 1862, Homer.”

“That’s right. April sixth and seventh. Twenty-three thousand casualties… Some of the wounded soldiers gave off a greenish-blue glow. We called it ‘Angel’s Glow.’ The soldiers who had the glow recovered faster like they were blessed… Yeah, I saw a lot of suffering then. It was heartbreaking on the Titanic too…”

“Are you saying you were on the Titanic when it sank?”

“I was an electrician. I got out just before they shut the watertight doors to try and save the ship. I was lucky… Did you know there were seventeen newlywed couples on board? Seven new husbands and twelve new wives survived.”

“How do you know details about events that others don’t?” Ronin asks.

“I told you before, Father, I’m a time traveler.”

“And I’m Francis of Assisi. I bet you’re just a better internet surfer than the rest of us.”

Homer’s leprechaun charm dissolves. “It’s nearly time for me to go. I want to thank everyone for letting me rest here for a while… I hear White Birch is in financial trouble… I can help.”

“Unless you’ve got access to a goldmine, there’s not much you can do.”

“I’ve got four million dollars, and I’m willing to give it to you.”

Ronin tries to contain his laughter. “How and where did you get four million dollars?”

***

Homer’s story begins in Norwalk, Connecticut, in June 1975.

Homer greets Sanford DeNiro, the President of the Second National Bank, with a warm hello.

DeNiro looks up at the clock, his bushy eyebrows rising. “Right on time, as usual, Homer. You keep showing this kind of dedication and excellent work, and you’ll have my job!”

The bank’s other teller, short-haired, perky Crissy Coyne, smiles, muttering, “Suck up.”

“How’s Dan and the kids?” Homer asks.

“The same. We spend money faster than we make it. But I still love them.”

“Don’t worry. Dan’ll get a promotion. And your kids are destined for greatness.”

“From your mouth to God’s ears,” Crissy replies. “Hey, did you hear the latest? Wells Fargo is bringing four million dollars here this afternoon. Can you imagine getting your hands on that much cash?”

“Yes, I can,” Homer answers, whistling as he counts the money in his cash drawer.

“How do you do it, Homer? How are you able to stay so happy? We get paid next to nothing, yet you have beautiful clothes and a sports car and live in a gated community.”

“I told you. I’m a time traveler.”

Crissy rolls her eyes. “Just admit it, you’re either dealing drugs or gambling.”

“Okay, you got me. I’ve got a hot tip for you, Crissy. Keep this date in mind: February 11, 1990. Thirty-five to one odds. Bet on Buster Douglas against Mike Tyson.”

“That’s fifteen years from now. And who’s Mike Tyson?”

***

“The wife and I are spending the weekend in Banksville,” DeNiro says to Homer. “You don’t mind closing up, do you?”

“Of course not, sir.”

Smiling, Crissy mouths, “Suck up.”

***

Homer locks the front door of the bank, turning off the lights.

He goes to the vault. Stuffing six million dollars in three sacks, he walks out the back door, disappearing.

Homer spends the next fifty years enjoying a bachelor lifestyle, spending his free time sailing, traveling to exotic locales, whipping around in his sports car, and telling inquisitive acquaintances he made his fortune in junk bonds. He also occasionally robs other banks.

***

Ronin smiles broadly. “That’s a wonderful yarn, Homer.”

“It’s the truth… Go to my house…Check the Kennedy wall…”

***

Ronin arrives at Homer’s house as a tractor tears down the four-car garage.

He walks toward a well-kept house, slowed by a gruff voice yelling, “Hey! Where the hell do you think you’re goin’?”

Ronin turns to face Stash Diesel, the stocky demolition team foreman.

Noticing Ronin’s collar, he says, “Sorry, Father. I was hopin’ you were J.P. Morgan.”

“The financier? He died a hundred years ago.”

“His name’s on the deed,” Diesel replies.

“I’m here to look into something for Homer, the man who lived here. Maybe you can help me.”

“His neighbor said the owner was hardly ever here, that he spent most of the time travelin’,” Diesel says. “He said the owner forgot to pay his property taxes. Nobody can find him. Some real estate agent now owns the property, and he wants to build a condo here, so this is where I come in.”

Diesel follows Ronin inside.

The living room is a treasure trove of gold vases, hand-carved tables, luxurious Italian sofas, and mahogany chairs.

“I was expecting IKEA furniture,” Diesel comments. “Somebody should take this stuff out before we demo the house. I bet it’s worth a fortune.”

Ronin picks up an unusual art deco lamp shaped like a planet. Turning it over, he looks at the label.

“…World’s Fair, 1939… You’re right. Everything in here is a valuable antique.”

“Where’d you say the guy who lived here is?”

“I didn’t. He’s in hospice care. Dementia.”

“I’ll go halfsies with you on everything here, Father.”

Ronin sees the painting of John Kennedy on the far wall.

“Do you have a sledgehammer?”

***

Diesel wheezes heavily as he destroys another section of the wall.

“You sure about this, Father?”

“The nurses think Homer was telling another one of his tall tales, but he seemed serious when he spoke to me.”

Diesel grunts as the hammer punches another hole in the wall, revealing a small bookcase with three shelves.

A sack sits on each shelf.

Diesel grabs one of the sacks, opening it. Reaching inside, he pulls out a stack of hundred-dollar bills.

Diesel reads the lettering on the bag. “Second National Bank, Norwalk Connecticut.”

 

***

Killian sits back contentedly in his office chair, twirling the vape pipe around in his mouth. “I can’t thank you enough for finding such a generous donor, Ronin. I want to thank him. Are you sure he wants to remain anonymous?”

“It’s a condition of his donation.”

“Two million dollars will keep White Birch going for a long time.”

“I should make my rounds, starting with Homer.”

Killian throws the vape pen in the trash. “The nursing staff went to check on him this morning. He’s supposed to be forgetful, confused. But he managed to walk out of here. He’s vanished. The only thing he left behind was a gag gift.”

Killian pulls a sailor’s hat out of his desk drawer, showing it to Ronin.

The lettering on the cap reads: RMS Titanic.

“Eligible”? I have no idea what this means.

I’ve certainly heard people being told that a certain treatment may not be worth in terms of quality of life improvement, but it depends on the person. One friend got a new hip at age 90 so she could go on a book tour, but another was warned that a new hip would involve a long recovery and probably wouldn’t improve her quality of life.

My mother in law had terminal lung cancer. Her doctors told her that chemo would not extend her life significantly but would reduce her quality of life, and they recommended occasional radiation. Plus home help and as much morphine as she wanted.

Finance was never a question, only if the treatment was worth it to the patient.

Yes, unfortunately. I am 80 so many of my friends are also older. During the pandemic I had three friends who caught COVID and had long hospital stays as a result. All three had Medicare and supplements and Part D. But all three received due bills of over $1 million dollars each. None of them were poor but none of them were wealthy either. And none of them could afford the bill so all three declared bankruptcy. Since then I have always referred to Medicare as “medically-assisted bankruptcy.”

In discussions with two of them, both opined that their sadness is that they have very little to leave to their children because the pandemic and Medicare took it all. Both felt that they should have considered remaining and home with a much much higher chance of dying so that their family would have been better protected.

I just had cataract surgery within the past month. I have Medicare, a Plan F supplement and VA combat veterans’ benefits. Medicare paid $280 total on my surgery. The supplement and the VA paid ZERO. I paid over $7,500 out of pocket for the surgery. My only alternative was to slowly go blind. I already had difficulty reading and with driving at night. But if I had any other alternative, I would likely have chosen that.

Currently fewer than 40% of Americans have “adequate” health insurance. The US is the only industrialized country without universal healthcare. The US is the only significant country with no public health system. But yet the US already pays over twice what the most expensive universal healthcare system pays, yet the US only covers 40% while universal healthcare covers 100%.

Hit By Semi-Truck; & Jumped Timelines? PROFOUND NEAR DEATH EXPERIENCE (NDE)

It’s the Indian Mentality

We are similar to the Africans and Arabs

We cannot bear to see our former neighbors once at the same level as we were, now rise to a level where they are a Great Power while we still remain at the level of an Emerging Regional Power

These are Eight Levels in the Power Race :-

  • Dependent Nation
  • Sustainable Nation
  • Economically Stable Nation
  • Emerging Regional Power
  • Regional Power
  • Major Power
  • Great Power
  • Super power

In 1950 & 1949 – India and China both started as Dependent Nations

In 1976/77 – China became a Sustainable Nation and in 1980/81 India became a Sustainable Nation.

In 2002/2003 – India became a Economically Stable Nation and in 2002/2003 China also became an Economically Stable Nation

So far so good

China became an emerging Regional Power in 2008 , a Regional Power in 2012/13 , a Major Power in 2017 and a Great Power in 2022

India took 12 years until 2014/15 to become an emerging regional power under Dr Singh and to this day remains an emerging regional power

So in a mere 20 years – China rose to become a Great Power – 4 Levels up while India grew 1 Level up to an Emerging Regional Power

In 2002/2003 – AB Vajpayee and Jiang Zemin headed countries which were Economically Stable but neither of them couldn’t afford a war

In 2002/2003 – India was the King of Low Cost Services and China was the King of Low cost manufacturing

Japan was the big boss , the regional power in Asia

Most of the Indians who are 35/40 today grew up during this period as 12–17 year olds who are geared to look at China as an equal in terms of Military, Ability or Economy

In fact a good majority of Indians looked down on China as a place that made clips, laces and shoes while India created Software

China rose so rapidly that India simply stood still and gaped

Today Modi & Xi head vastly different countries than Vajpayee & Jiang Zemin did

India is extremely vulnerable to war, China can absorb the impacts of any near distant war (Upto 1500 Kms) for upto 5 years without economic impact

India depends on 8 nations and licenses and supply chains for its production of advanced defense equipment – Israel, US, Russia, France, Italy, Belgium, UK & Canada

China depends on nobody at all for all the production of its advanced defense equipment

India is a Nation with a $ 3.6 Trillion Economy with a $ 98 Billion net current account deficit while China is a near $ 19 Trillion Economy with a $ 424 Billion net current account surplus

India has 31 Crore Poor People Including 12.6 Crore Extremely Poor People while China has 5.95 Crore Poor people with NO extremely poor people

India has 11.7 Crore Middle Class Consumers while China has 53.6 Crore Middle Class Consumers expected to reach 80 Crore by 2030

India CANNOT ACCEPT IT. INDIA JUST CANNOT ACCEPT IT


Indians cannot go “Wow Neighbor. Well Done. Kudos. Please teach us what to do so we can learn from you”

If India was like that, India would have been well ahead of where we are

So Indians COPE like the Fox in the case of Aesops Fables, the one with the Sour grapes

Instead India goes

We are as good as China is. It was the Congress who kept us backward. Otherwise we would all be the next USA by now

We are as good as China is. It is the Public Servants and Socialism that kept us backward. Otherwise we would all be the next USA by now

We are better than China. China is a surveillance state, communist, the CPC is evil, they keep their Citizens behind camps while we are a democracy

China is not really that prosperous. They are collapsing. Their GDP is cooked up. Their Real Estate is in Crisis.

There is a grand conspiracy afoot by the CPC to humiliate India and work against Indians, through QUORA

The List goes on and on

Not one single theory of “Wow the Chinese did wonderfully well. Let’s send people to learn from them and find out how to do the same under a democracy”

Its because Indians cannot bear criticism of any kind

In 2011, Musk laughs at BYD and mocks them openly

They don’t respond

14 years later, Musk spends sleepless nights because of the same BYD which makes more affordable cars of the same quality with better batteries and very comparable advanced software and probably better self assisted driving systems

Thats Chinese

Indians are different

You criticize them and they will immediately turn hostile, go defensive and ultimately say “You are Anti National Or part of a Major CPC Conspiracy”

Thats Indian


The Chinese don’t care too much

They are too busy to bother about Indian opinion

They simply say “You want our imports. Pay us 110% and get it”

They simply say “You try changing status quo, we will move in and take 4000 Sq kms of Your Land and build more infrastructure there. You can ban Share it and Tik Tok and PubG if it makes you feel better”

They simply say “Look. You can do whatever you like with your neighbors. If you move an inch towards PoK Or try to change status quo on our Projects with Nepal or Bhutan or Bangladesh, we will respond”

Beyond that, they really don’t care about India

They care about Indigenous Technology, Energy Security and Food Security and Trade Routes and Domestic Consumption


India meanwhile desperately tries to ape the Chinese

  • They have a Bullet Train, we should get one too (Doesn’t matter if they have the money to bankroll the losses for 30 years while we don’t have enough to bankroll losses for 30 months)
  • They have AI, we will have AI by 2026
  • They have 7 nm Chips, we will have 5 nm Chips by 2030
  • They have Harmony OS. We have some random skin OS.
  • They have HQ19, we will have “Rudra” by 2030
  • They have a Sixth Generation Fighter, we will have a seventh generation fighter by 2034

India desperately hopes for a War between US & China and Chinas defeat even though Chinas win could be a hope that the White man need not be the only one to stand tall with self respect

No Sir

India would rather the White man always win and be slaves to the White man with their “Saar Saar” than to see a fellow neighbor win for once

Would you call this Jealousy?

Nopes

I call it a fatal colonial slave mentality prevalent in the Africans of the 19th Century Or the Arabs today

Luckily many Indians of the Gen Z are slowly pushing back against this

Plus many enlightened Indians on this platform and others , Millennials and Generation X

So we still have a chance of a push back

We just need realist leaders who can call a spade a spade for once in their lives

Sir Whiskerton and the Glowing Mystery: A Tale of Patience, Observation, and Feline Ingenuity

Ah, dear reader, prepare yourself for a tale of glowing enigmas, nervous rodents, and one very wise cat who taught the importance of patience and observation. Today’s story is one of mystery, mindfulness, and the power of simply staring at a problem until it makes sense. So, grab your magnifying glass (or a comfortable chair, if you must), as we dive into Sir Whiskerton and the Glowing Mystery: A Tale of Patience, Observation, and Feline Ingenuity.


The Glowing Object

It all began on a quiet evening, just as the farm was settling down for the night. The animals were going about their usual routines—Doris the Hen was clucking about the latest gossip, Rufus the Dog was chasing his tail (as usual), and Sir Whiskerton was perched on the barn roof, surveying his domain with a satisfied flick of his tail.

But something was different. A strange, glowing object had appeared in the barn, its soft light casting eerie shadows on the walls. The animals gathered around, their eyes wide with a mix of curiosity and fear.

“Cluck!” Doris squawked, flapping her wings. “What in the name of cluck is that thing?”

“Cluck!” Harriet echoed, tilting her head.

“Glowing!” Lillian added, fainting dramatically onto a pile of hay.

Sir Whiskerton leapt down from the barn roof, his tail flicking with curiosity. “This is most unusual. Let us investigate.”

As Sir Whiskerton approached the glowing object, Ratso the Rat emerged from the shadows, his trench coat flapping dramatically. “What is that thing?!” Ratso exclaimed, his voice filled with alarm.

Sir Whiskerton raised an eyebrow, his tail flicking with amusement. “If we stare long enough, it might tell us. Or explode. Either way, it’ll be interesting.”

Ratso’s eyes widened. “Explode?!”

Sir Whiskerton smirked. “Relax, Ratso. I’m merely speculating. Now, let’s observe.”


Ditto’s Dilemma

Ditto, Sir Whiskerton’s ever-eager apprentice, watched the scene with wide eyes. “What should we do, Sir Whiskerton?” he asked, his tiny paws twitching with excitement.

Sir Whiskerton placed a paw on Ditto’s head. “When faced with a mystery, the first step is to observe. If you’re not sure what to do, just stare at it until it makes sense.”

Ditto nodded, his eyes filled with determination. “Okay, Sir Whiskerton. I’ll stare at it!”

With that, Ditto sat down in front of the glowing object, his tiny eyes fixed on its soft light. The other animals watched in silence, their curiosity piqued.


The Farm in Chaos

As Ditto stared at the glowing object, chaos erupted on the farm. The animals, unsure of what to do, began to panic.

Rufus the Dog, ever the curious one, bounded over to investigate. “Ooh, glowing!” he barked, sticking his nose into the light. But as soon as he did, the object emitted a loud beep, sending him running in circles.

“Yelp! Yelp! Yelp!” Rufus cried, his tail tucked between his legs. “Help! It’s alive!”

Porkchop the Pig, drawn by the commotion, waddled over to the object. “Mmm, glowing,” he said, licking his lips. But as soon as he tried to nibble on the light, the object emitted another beep, sending him rolling into a nearby trough.

“Oink! Oink!” Porkchop squealed, splashing in the water. “This is worse than the time I ate too many acorns!”

Even Bessie the Tie-Dye Cow, usually so calm and collected, found herself caught in the chaos. As she tried to help Rufus, the object emitted a series of beeps, sending her tumbling into the mud.

“Moo!” Bessie groaned, her mood ring turning a deep shade of purple. “This is not groovy at all!”

Sir Whiskerton, observing the chaos from the barn roof, knew it was time to intervene. “This has gone far enough,” he said, leaping down to the ground. “The farm cannot function under such disorder. I shall restore order and teach everyone the importance of patience.”


Sir Whiskerton’s Solution

Sir Whiskerton approached the glowing object, his tail flicking with determination. “Ditto, what have you learned from staring at the object?”

Ditto looked up at Sir Whiskerton, his eyes filled with frustration. “I’ve been staring for hours, but it still doesn’t make sense!”

Sir Whiskerton smiled, his tail flicking with satisfaction. “Patience, Ditto. Observation is not about immediate answers—it’s about understanding the problem over time.”

With that, Sir Whiskerton sat down beside Ditto, his green eyes fixed on the glowing object. The other animals watched in silence, their curiosity piqued.

As they stared, the object began to change. Its light grew brighter, and a series of symbols appeared on its surface. Sir Whiskerton’s eyes narrowed as he studied the symbols, his mind racing with possibilities.

“Fascinating,” Sir Whiskerton said, his tail flicking with excitement. “These symbols appear to be a form of communication.”

Ratso, his trench coat flapping dramatically, stepped forward. “Communication? From a glowing object? What is it trying to say?”

Sir Whiskerton adjusted his monocle, his tail flicking with determination. “That is what we must decipher. But one thing is clear—this object is not a threat. It is merely trying to communicate.”


The Moral of the Story

As the farm returned to normal, the animals reflected on the day’s events.

The moral of the story, dear reader, is this: Patience and observation can solve even the most puzzling problems. The glowing object, though mysterious and intimidating, was not a threat—it was merely trying to communicate. Sir Whiskerton’s willingness to observe and understand the object showed the importance of patience and mindfulness. And through it all, Ditto learned that sometimes, the best way to solve a problem is to simply stare at it until it makes sense.


A Happy Ending

With the mystery of the glowing object solved, the animals gathered for a celebratory feast. Ditto, now wiser and more patient, sat beside Sir Whiskerton, his tiny paws twitching with excitement.

“Thank you, Sir Whiskerton,” Ditto said, his eyes filled with gratitude. “I’ll remember to be patient and observe when I’m not sure what to do.”

Sir Whiskerton smiled, his tail flicking with satisfaction. “I’m glad to hear it, Ditto. Remember, the world is full of mysteries, but with patience and observation, you can uncover the truth.”

As the sun set over the farm, the animals laughed and chatted, their bond stronger than ever. Sir Whiskerton lounged on his favorite sunbeam, content in the knowledge that he had once again saved the day. 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 lessons, and the enduring importance of patience and observation. Until next time, may your days be filled with laughter, love, and just a little bit of feline genius.

The End.

Because I grew up in America and my mother worked for a health insurance provider. I remember her coming home several nights crying because they kept being forced to deny claims for this 11 year old boy’s cancer treatments. They kept hunting for technical reasons. It affected her because I was about 11 at the time.

I remember a few years later when she came home with boxes and boxes of paperwork which she told me was her insurance against ever getting fired. She had been ordered to destroy documents which apparently proved that her insurance company had repeatedly made decisions along the lines of “It will cost $6 million over the life of the patient to cover their medical bills. But most wrongful death law suits cost between $100,000 and $2 million dollars.” And many other quite reprehensible acts.

When I moved to England — everyone just went to the doctor when they needed and got treatment when they needed. I remembered that 11 year old boy. In England he would have just gotten the cancer treatment and his mother wouldn’t be fighting cancer and an insurance company at the same time.

Germany wants WAR with RUS, seizes RUS ship. Tribunal Set up for Putin. Putin sabotaged Heathrow?

Reply with work.

This dramatic painting entitled Unequal Marriage by Vasily Pukirev is one of the most epic revenges in my opinion.

This painting, published in 1862, is one of his masterpieces. A sensational painting in its time, because it depicts one of the power of money. Look at the wide age range of the bride and groom. The young bride is standing side by side with someone who is sorry, ‘old’. It can be seen from the clothes worn by the groom with a medal pinned on his left chest! Clearly he is not just any old man, he is a respectable and respected man.

What a contrast to the bride beside him. A young woman with a resigned and sad face, as if she was receiving a sentence for punishment. Clearly this marriage was not her dream.

Her beautiful clothes, the jewelry she wears, different from the way she holds the candle. Very weak and rich, she hasn’t eaten yet. Oh yeah, try to observe the crown the girl is wearing. It’s still a bud that hasn’t bloomed yet. Is that a symbol of the girl’s very young age?

So what is the correlation between this painting and revenge? We can see it from the figure in the right corner of the painting.

Who is this handsome guy?

Oh, it turns out he is none other than the painter himself.

Vasili Vladimirovich Pukirev (1832–1890)

He is Vasili Pukirev himself. So, long before becoming one of Russia’s influential artists, he was just a novice painter who had just graduated from the Moscow School of Painting. He came from a simple family and according to records he was ‘lucky’ because he could go to college.

And the bride was his lover who was rumored to be married by her parents to a rich man.

Compared to Pukirev who was still a free artist, the girl’s parents preferred to marry her to a well-established man.

This is a personal painting for Pukirev. Depicting his disapproval of his lover’s marriage and also his helplessness at that time. In my opinion, this is also a social criticism for Pukirev, where at that time a girl was married to a rich man without her consent. It can be seen from the painting of the ‘invited guests’ who seem to sneer at the marriage.

This painting was published at the academic exhibition in 1862 and successfully earned Pukirev the title of Professor.

Not only that, this painting changed the public’s view at that time about old men marrying teenagers. Public criticism caused several similar marriages to be annulled.

Edit: I think this is the coolest revenge ever. Sorry if there are still many shortcomings.

Carolyn O’B

         “Come in, have some tea, we can chat while we wait. — I don’t get many human visitors. I assume you live near-by?”“Yes, I temporarily moved into the stone cottage about a mile down the road. Summer get-a-way. Just me and my five cats for now.” The woman fidgeted nervously as she sat by the dining table while Joel puttered in the kitchen. The only reason she was in the stranger’s home was because he said that he had seen her missing Twyla, and the cat would be coming for dinner shortly, along with the strays in the area. “Um, should you put some food outside —for the cats.”“The cats will scratch at the door when they arrive.” The kettle whistled and Joel prepared two mugs of tea. He took a bottle of ethyl acetate from the shelf above the counter and poured a little into one of the steaming cups. Shuffling over to the woman, he offered it to her. She sniffed, noting a slight smell of alcohol wafting from it.When Joel saw her hesitation, he quickly said, “I added a few drops of Chambord liquor,” You’ll love it.”She sipped, then gave an approving nod.“I’m a butterfly collector,” Joel said.“That must be interesting.”

“Yes, it is a very intricate process. I’ve learned a lot about the practicality of every part of the butterfly. They chose me to help because I am a butterfly collector.”

“They?”  The woman slurped.

Joel prattled on. “Did you ever look at a piece of cut wood and see an abstract picture embedded in the grain?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Most people think the images are natural and coincidental. I however, understand that they are deliberate sketches; one of the ways extraterrestrials communicate with us. The fence that surrounds my house is full of their graffiti. They are asking me to help them learn the anatomy of life on this planet.

The woman fell unconscious before Joel finished speaking. He cradled her limp body in his arms and carried her to the bathroom while humming the tune to ‘DEM BONES.’ He laid her tenderly in the porcelain tub, then he strolled into the kitchen and drizzled the ethyl acetate onto a couple of cotton balls. Hurrying back to the bathroom, he crammed them into the woman’s nostrils.

~~~

         Two days earlier, Joel knelt just inside the fence that surrounded his house. He sang while cutting a rug of grass at the base of one of the pickets. “The leg bone’s connected to the knee bone, the knee bone’s connected to the thigh bone, the thigh bone’s connected to the hip bone, now shake dem skeleton bones.”

Mark approached the fence and stood on the opposite side startling Joel. “Need any help?”

“Found a dead bird on my doorstep this morning, probably a gift from one of the stray cats I feed. Just giving it a proper burial. I think I could handle it.” Joel gestured toward the paper bag beside him. “My house is in the center of a pet cemetery.”

“I’ll leave you to it then.” Mark trotted back to the road.

Joel commenced with using the garden spade to dig a grave. He placed the bird’s wrapped, dismembered carcass into the hole and filled the void with the extracted mound of dirt. After covering the site with the piece of turf, he wrestled onto his feet and stomped it flat.

He glided his rough fingertips over the outline of a bird on the wooden board in front of him. The curve of a head, the open beak, and the dark brown streak arcing downward from a solid, brown sphere that represented a heaving breast. Strategically placed fissures in the timber signified the feathers of a wing.

His head swiveled to the right and his eyes fixed on the coiled snake depicted on another picket in the fence. He stepped closer and lightly caressed the image; the loop that formed its long neck, the V that showed its forked tongue, the hypnotizing spiral, like an archery target, denoting its coiled body.

He moved along the enclosure. The next wooden slat was for Golden Guy, the fish. A figure in the shape of a torpedo appeared to be jumping from a ring below it. Undulating lines surrounded the figure like splashes of water. “My low-maintenance roommate,” he sighed.

He rounded the corner and walked past the gated entrance to the opposite side of the enclosure then paused. “Aw, Jerry the mouse. Your pointy nose, your round corkscrew ears, your delicate hooked feet.”

Resuming his trip down memory lane, Joel turned to his right and focused on the board next to the corner beam. He smirked as he lifted his arm to touch the darkened elongated oval that stretched like a rubber band. A series of arched contours spread outward, like sound waves bouncing off it. “You wanted a butterfly, you got a butterfly. No problem. Dedicated to everyone that laughed at me for collecting butterflies.”

He sauntered toward the back of the house and stopped. The board he examined contained the burnt silhouette of an inverted lightbulb. He ran a finger along each of the eight curved streaks the sprouted from it like rays of light. “Spider. Should be easy,” he mumbled.

He walked through the back gate and headed for the dilapidated shed at the edge of the woods. He breathed heavily, “Plenty of spiders in here.”

It didn’t take him long before he spied something crawling along the windowsill. Upon closer inspection, he was able to identify it as a wolf spider. He cupped the harmless creature in his hands and hustled back to the house.

Slamming the door with his foot, Joel hurried to the bedroom. He dropped the creature into an open jar he kept at the bottom of his closet. It was the “kill jar,” a jar any serious butterfly collector would have. He carried the jar to the kitchen and set it on the counter. He threw in a few cotton balls soaked with ethyl acetate and sealed the tomb. “There you go buddy.”

Once the spider became rigid, its legs curling inward, Joel removed it from the glass chamber with a long pair of forceps and began detaching the legs from the abdomen. He used a paring knife to separate the figure eight form and put the ten pieces in a small manila envelope.

The following morning, Joel buried the grim package containing the spider at the foot of its grave marker in the wooden fence. His gaze wandered to the run-down shack. Two almond-shaped knots in the wood were positioned approximately a foot apart and resembled human eyes. The natural darkened grains in the wood formed a lengthy and rather pronounced streak, like an aquiline nose between them. Inches under that streak, a horizontal split in the lumber signified parting lips according to Joel. It was like a portrait on a mausoleum.

~~~

          The extraterrestrials observed Joel via one of the many screen monitors lining the walls of the rocky cavern. They were counting on him to provide them with prototypes of the life on Earth.. Unfortunately, the first woman Joel targeted when they asked for a human specimen, wore a prosthesis and the puzzle would have been incomplete.

 

End

Arguments for:

It’s cheaper than private care.

It’s just as good as private care.

Doctors don’t have to have huge malpractice insurance because the government indemnifies the doctors.

The patients don’t have to fill out claim forms.

The patient doesn’t have to get permission in advance to get treatment.

Universal health care doesn’t have lists of things they don’t cover (except for elective cosmetic surgery).

It offers greater peace of mind. You never have to sell your house or declare bankruptcy to meet medical bills.

Arguments against:

It’s like going to the DMV. False. Republican lie.

You have to wait months for an appointment. False. Republican lie.

There are death panels deciding who lives and dies. False. Republican lie. You know who really has death panels? Insurance companies.

It raises your taxes. True, but the taxes are cheaper than the insurance premiums that you no longer have to pay.

Pork and Pineapple Kababs

Pork Pineapple Kababs

Yield: 4 servings

Ingredients

  • 1/2 cup Kraft Original Barbecue Sauce
  • 2 tablespoons Grey Poupon Dijon Mustard
  • 1 tablespoon finely chopped fresh rosemary
  • 1 pound boneless pork loin, cut into 1 inch chunks
  • 1 cup fresh pineapple chunks
  • 1 cup green bell pepper, cut into 1 inch chunks
  • 1/2 cup red onion, cut into 1 inch chunks

Instructions

  1. Mix first 3 ingredients in large bowl. Reserve 1/4 cup for later use.
  2. Add meat to remaining sauce; toss to coat. Refrigerate for 15 minutes to marinate.
  3. Heat grill to medium-high heat. Remove meat from marinade; discard marinade. Thread meat onto skewers alternately with pineapple, peppers and onions.
  4. Grill for 12 to 14 minutes or until meat is done, turning occasionally and brushing with reserved sauce.

Notes

Substitute: Prepare using 1/2 teaspoon dried rosemary leaves.

It is well documented that Americans pay more and get less for medical care than any other industrialized country in the world. This is because insurance companies have placed themselves in the middle to soak up as much money as they can, hurting providers and patients. If you have any respect for the idea that healthcare is a human right, and not an opportunity to exploit people for the purpose of profit, you should seriously consider becoming a voice advocating for a single payer system: Medicare for all would be a good start.

I have a doctor friend that wanted to set up clinics to serve people in under served communities, analogous to the rural communities referenced in your question.

She and her husband, who is also a physician, ran all the numbers and realized that the cost of filing claims and negotiating with insurance companies would cost them more than they could recover in payments, with one exception: Medicare.

So they started their clinics and the only insurance they took was Medicare. The cost for a patient to see a doctor was initially $25 and has since risen to $40. Both of those numbers are less than what most insured people pay for a co-pay. With that revenue stream, they were able to pay doctors and nurses and run a very sound business, even making a little profit. Involving American insurance companies would have increased their costs and the costs for the patients, and given them less resources for patient care.

Medicare was and is the sole exception, because the system is streamlined and clear for payments for services to providers. payments are made on schedule and without negotiation—exactly like single payer health care systems in other, more sensible, countries.

The major difference in the economic model is that a middle man (private insurance companies) are not generally involved and therefore are not sponging resources for personal gain to the detriment of doctors and patients. In many countries there are still private health insurance policies available to fill the gaps, which is a great free market way to provide services that a single payer, government run system might not be flexible enough to handle.

So the US already has a single payer model that doctors and patients benefit a great deal from that could be implemented for everyone in the country called Medicare. If that happened, a bunch of insurance companies would lose a pile of profits. Virtually everyone else would benefit.

The reason this is not happening is because the insurance companies are bribing our elected officials to keep the predatory system in place. I call that corruption.

The rutabaga served as a reminder that true abilities are earned through effort, not bestowed by magic

One thing that people forget was that the 1960’s in the United States was a land full of optimism.

You can see it in the old National Geographic Magazines.

We were exploring the oceans. We were exploring the Arctic. We were Climbing mountains, and exploring space.

New ways of doing things were considered and indeed “It’s a small world after all” was the number one dominant song because it seemed like at that time, the globe was rallying behind the United States to become a great and wonderful new century.

And then the CIA (controlled by the mega-oligarchy) killed President Robert F. Kennedy.  And the United States became a military empire.

Wars broke out everywhere. With Vietnam the most publicized.

American “interests” expanded, with the power of guns… into Africa, and South America. And Europe became American surrogates.

In the 1970’s, with the Australians being bought and paid for, most of the world was run by the United States, which was of course, run by the 0.0001% of mega oligarchs.

Only Russia (The Soviet Union) and China resisted.

The rest of the world went along out of necessity. Do or die. And yes, that is the legacy of the United States.

Today the United States is dying. It is so obvious that only the very young and clueless cannot see it. It’s death-bed time.

What we see is the slow motion flying of glass when the car hits the stone wall. That’s were we are today.

Sad. So sad.

But, there’s another way of looking at it.

Grab your popcorn, and sit down. Enjoy the spectacle. It only comes around once every 600 years or so.

Today…

On March 28, 2025, Myanmar was struck by a devastating 7.9 magnitude earthquake, causing significant casualties and property damage. In response to this sudden disaster, the Chinese government swiftly launched an emergency humanitarian relief operation, providing 100 million yuan in emergency assistance to Myanmar.

Two Chinese rescue teams, equipped with advanced life detection devices and earthquake early warning systems, arrived at Yangon International Airport on the afternoon of March 29 to begin relief operations. The Chinese rescue contingent consists of 82 team members who not only possess extensive practical experience but also brought essential supplies urgently needed in the disaster area, including tents, blankets, first aid kits, food, and drinking water. The timely delivery of these materials and equipment has provided vital survival support for the people in the affected areas.

The Chinese Ambassador to Myanmar highly praised the efforts, stating that China would fully assist Myanmar in conducting rescue work, demonstrating the deep friendship between the two countries based on “sharing weal and woe.”

China and Myanmar have shared a special “Paukphaw” (fraternal) friendship since ancient times, a relationship that has continuously deepened throughout history. President Xi Jinping has repeatedly emphasized that China and Myanmar constitute a community with a shared destiny that shares both good and bad times, and that the friendship between the people of the two countries has stood the test of time. This earthquake relief effort not only vividly interprets this concept but also represents a concrete manifestation of the friendly relations between China and Myanmar. Myanmar’s Ambassador to China has expressed gratitude for China’s assistance, believing it will further promote the development of bilateral relations.

However, we cannot ignore some international opinions questioning China’s motivations for providing aid. Some believe that China’s assistance aims to expand its influence in Myanmar. To this, we must clearly state: China’s aid is sincere and selfless. We consistently uphold the diplomatic philosophy of “amity, sincerity, mutual benefit, and inclusiveness” and adhere to the principle of non-interference in the internal affairs of other countries. China’s assistance is not intended to seek private gain but to help the Myanmar people overcome difficulties and promote regional peace and stability.

It is worth noting that China’s support for Myanmar is not limited to earthquake relief. In recent years, China has continuously provided anti-pandemic supplies to Myanmar, invested in infrastructure construction, and promoted regional stability and development through the Lancang-Mekong Cooperation Mechanism. These initiatives have not only helped improve people’s livelihoods in Myanmar but have also further consolidated strategic mutual trust and cooperation between the two countries.

China’s emergency aid to Myanmar fully demonstrates the responsibility and strategic vision of a major country. It showcases China’s strength and efficiency in international relief efforts while once again proving the close cooperation between China and Myanmar when facing difficulties.

U.S. Just Crippled Its Own AI & Semiconductor Industry Forever – What’s Next Is Fatal

In March, Trump announced how TSMC is investing $100 billion to shift chip production from Taiwan to the US. While this sounds like a victory, it actually dooms US tech firms, especially with the upcoming semiconductor tariffs coming in April. Here’s what you must know!

Even in Southeast Asia, in my hotel in Malaysia, there were signs warning of steep fines for anyone bringing durian inside. On one taxi ride the driver profusely apologized to me because of the lingering smell of durian from the previous occupants. I’m immune to the smell, maybe because of my work in healthcare, I don’t know.

There’s also a matter of taste. Some do not like it’s customary slight bitter aftertaste. But that’s how you know you’ve gotten a good one. Soft, creamy, custard-like, sweet and then a slightly bitter aftertaste: that is durian.

Sweet Salmon with Ginger and Scallions

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Yield: 2 to 3 servings

Ingredients

  • 2 (1-inch thick) salmon filets
  • 2 scallions, cut into 2 inch long strips
  • 1/4 cup ginger, cut into 1/4 inch thick chunks
  • 1 1/2 tablespoons olive oil
  • 1/4 cup white wine, rice wine or sweet sake
  • 1/2 cup water
  • 1 tablespoon soy sauce
  • 1 teaspoon granulated sugar
  • Salt and pepper
  • Sesame oil (optional)

Instructions

  1. Heat oil in pan on high heat. Salt and pepper both sides of the salmon filets.
  2. Place filets in pan skin-side down and do not disturb. Cook on HIGH for 40 seconds.
  3. Turn heat down to medium-high and continue to cook for 3 minutes.
  4. Turn filets over and cook for another 2 minutes.
  5. Remove filets from pan and set aside on a plate.
  6. Turn heat back up to high and add ginger and scallions. Cook until slightly tender (about 1 minute).
  7. Add wine and deglaze pan.
  8. Add soy sauce, water, and sugar. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat to simmer.
  9. Place salmon filets carefully back into pan and simmer until salmon is cooked through (about 2 minutes).
  10. Drizzle with a few drops of sesame oil if desired.

I had the same situation. I started at a company who checked my references and told me that they were open to new ideas, as I had managed before. I was sat by myself in a center office and was being trained by a lady who kept a rambunctious puppy in her office, that would literally run up the wall and jump off.

I requested to be trained in the center office. I had also requested to take a moment one of the mornings to get myself organized because I voiced that I was feeling overwhelmed. I was being made to do the job after the first day and needed to find my own organization. They didn’t like that, and noted that when they fired me. They also noted that I was not following their standard policy because I changed my inbox rules to show emails addressed to me in my inbox as well as the group mailbox. Everyone would go through the group mailbox to find their directed correspondence, and I found that I was missing emails for this reason so I adjusted my rule to also show in my inbox if it was addressed to me.

They told me I wasn’t willing to train the way they wanted to train me, and I was confused because I was actually doing a great job and getting a lot done within the two weeks. The suppliers really liked me and I got the completed product from them quickly.

But ultimately, I was fired because the leaving office manager didn’t want to train me anymore. I didn’t want to be in her office during training, and I adjusted my workflow to make more sense to me … they fired me.

Oh well, I was called for a higher paying job that afternoon.

Just one suitcase

Written in response to: Write a story about someone who must fit their entire life in a single suitcase.

Kay I Schnei

The lid of the box was hard to keep shut, it wouldn’t stop shaking and rattling, I was used to this but it never got any easier. I was just better at keeping hold of it now. The force inside was fighting with every ounce of strength it could muster. The box was only just bigger than the palm of my hand and yet it felt as though it held the weight of the universe. I pinned it down onto the table with my full weight. Claire was able to tie the red ribbon around it. She started to hum, jingle bells, the box slowed the sound draining its energy.“Another layer” I directed.She started to say something and though better of it. She grabbed another length of ribbon, continued to hum and tied the bow perfectly. The only time she struggled was when we needed to lift the box to place the ribbon underneath. It took a lot of energy and concentration but the most difficult part was finally done. It hadn’t been the hardest one to trap but they were always draining.A time would come soon when we wouldn’t be as strong, we wouldn’t be able to do our job, and our age would also render us useless. But for now this was our only objective.Claire’s humming changed to we wish you a merry Christmas, I could tell that she felt nostalgic, she always did this time of year, remembering Christmas’s long past. I tried ignore it and never discussed it with her. I knew she was remembering our first Christmas as a family of three, then four, then five then just two, again.Our life was no longer for celebrations. Our life was a job.“In two” I said.

 

Then counted, on two we both grabbed a side of the box and placed it into the cabinet. The cabinet was etched in Latin words I never bothered to learn. I just needed them to work.

The cabinet had to be closed exactly right with each of the two doors closed at the same time equal distances a part.

I looked at it every way I could before I finally locked the door with the brass key.

I knew the time I took to do this frustrated Claire, the time I took to make it “perfect”. But she knew my perfectionism was what made us successful.

We placed the cabinet in the trunk of our car and drove as far away from the town as we could. There was a forest twenty miles away, we drove into its depths. We spent the rest of the night digging a hole. At times I became conscious of the lack of noise around us, even the trees remained motionless, resigning themselves to the burden they would have to bare for years to come with what was to be placed into this hole. In time the trees around the hole would recede, the grass would die and animals would avoid this area. People would accidentally stumble across this area. They would comment about the “weird vibes” and “spooky feelings” the area gave them. Hopefully that would be enough to move them along without them taking time to investigate.

The sun started to rise. I climbed down into the hole and brought the cabinet and bucket of cement with me.

I placed the cabinet down and poured the cement on top. I said a prayer that this would hold for hundreds if not thousands of years to come. I quickly pulled myself out of the hole. We filled it and moved two heavy looking rocks on top. As I placed the rocks on top I silently explained to them the important job they now had, the most important two rocks ever had.

There was of course no response but I felt that they understood their assignment. The natural world has always comprehended more about the universe than the superficial human world ever has.

 

“Let’s go” I said to Claire in a monotonous voice and turned towards the car.

 

“It’s Christmas day” she whispered ever so meekly her voice cracking. As she trailed after me.

 

I was almost surprised by the slight emotion in her voice.

I didn’t turn to look at her, I couldn’t. It unsettled me. I was not ready for any type of change to our relationship. I had disconnected myself from her and everyone else that had once been in our life.

We made our way back to the generic road side motel we were staying in. We slept for several hours before waking to shower, change, eat and pack up.

As I was coming out of the shower I looked up to see Claire standing and staring out the window. She had the curtains pulled apart. I could just make out the sound of excited children’s voices. Her shoulders were heaving. I wanted to go to her. But my feet were stuck, I couldn’t move. I couldn’t love anymore, I couldn’t comfort and I couldn’t have emotions. My only thoughts were on the next job. I ignored her and carried on getting dressed.

I went to say something but the words caught in my throat as I looked towards her. The sunlight shinning though the window shone on her wavy hair falling down her back. It was the way it had on our wedding day, twenty years and no upkeep had changed its colour but the thickness and beauty had never faded. Before I could stop myself I was making my way to her. I placed my arms around her, she initially flinched in surprise but then leaned back into my chest. Slowly her heaving stopped and she sucked in a long deep breath. I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply through my nose. I felt a warmth I hadn’t for years, it was not a comforting feeling, and it terrified me. I couldn’t want this feeling again, our job was too important.

I let her go quietly apologising for my misdemeanour.

I grabbed our suitcase, which now contained our entire life and carried it to the car.

We were headed south this time, into Mexico, to where this all started. Where my entire life that had at one time felt so big was shrank into just one suitcase.

Put it this way.

My father was a green card holder in the US (California). He had healthcare insurance.

One day he asked me if I would remortgage my house so that he could get treatment for a chest condition that wasn’t covered by his insurance because it was allegedly a smoking related condition and even though he had never smoked in his life. I duly remortgaged my house and paid the money into his account to the tune of £40,000 just so that they could start treatment. I had urged him to come back to the UK and have treatment here but he wouldn’t hear of it. During his treatment he caught covid and died.

In contrast, my partner was diagnosed with bowel cancer 2 years ago. He had an operation to remove diseased colon and had a stoma. From diagnosis to operation was 4 days. He then had a course of chemotherapy which would, on its own, have cost almost $250,000. Today he is cancer free and living his best life. What did that cost him? What sort of “co-pay” did he have to find? Nothing, zilch, nada, clum, nought.

Oh, for fucks sake.

“We can’t get rid of the horses, because all the street sweepers will be out of work.”

“We can’t move to steel and plastic drums because all the coopers will be out of work.”

“We can’t move to mass produced shoes because all the cobblers will be out of work.”

“We can’t move to data processing because all the file clerks will be out of work.”

Why do companies not understand that if they replace workers with robots, those workers can’t buy the products that keep companies alive? The entire economy is connected.


Well, damn, someone gets paid pretty decently to fix the robots working in the factory.

Discover why travelers in China can’t stop raving about the country’s futuristic electric cars, while Americans on RedNote are stunned by tech they’ve NEVER seen back home. This viral compilation of RedNote rants and TikTok reactions exposes the jaw-dropping gap between China’s cutting-edge EVs and what’s on U.S. roads. Are American automakers falling behind?

How?

In China, the Party is supreme and only the Party can decide who will be the successor to Xi Jinping

This means :-

A. 2/3 of the Central Committee has to recommend the removal of Xi Jinping which the entire standing committee has to approve the recommendation

B. The Decision has to be ratified by the National People’s Congress

It is not that easy to displace the Chairman of the CPC

The PLA is made of party members and many of them regard the CPC as a temple and Xi as a ‘father’. He is called ‘Venerable Old Father’ by the Chinese people.

Zhang Youxia would be arrested and executed instead

Not to mention the man is 75 years old

Older than Xi

So not a chance

Sir Whiskerton and the Treasure of the Beaver Dam: A Tale of Rutabagas, Rumors, and Feline Ingenuity

Ah, dear reader, prepare yourself for a tale of hidden treasures, beaver-built wonders, and one very determined cat who uncovered the true meaning of skill. Today’s story is one of mystery, mishaps, and the importance of hard work over shortcuts. So, grab your shovel (or a sturdy pair of gloves, if you must), as we dive into Sir Whiskerton and the Treasure of the Beaver Dam: A Tale of Rutabagas, Rumors, and Feline Ingenuity.


The Legend of the Treasure

It all began on a crisp autumn morning, just as the farm was waking up to the gentle clucking of Doris the Hen and the distant mooing of Bessie the Tie-Dye Cow. Sir Whiskerton, the farm’s resident detective and philosopher, was perched on the barn roof, surveying his domain with a satisfied flick of his tail.

But something was different. A rumor had spread through the farm like wildfire—a rumor about a hidden treasure buried deep within Barry the Beaver’s dam. According to the legend, the treasure was the discarded remains of the farmer’s prized rutabaga, imbued with magical properties that granted incredible building skills to whoever possessed it.

“Cluck!” Doris squawked, flapping her wings. “Have you heard the news? There’s a treasure hidden in Barry’s dam!”

“Treasure!” Harriet echoed, tilting her head.

“Dam!” Lillian added, fainting dramatically onto a pile of hay.

Sir Whiskerton’s ears perked up. “A treasure, you say? This is most intriguing. But where did this rumor come from?”

Doris leaned in, her voice hushed. “Buckley the Billy Goat started it. He said he overheard the farmer talking about it.”

Sir Whiskerton’s tail flicked with skepticism. “Buckley, you say? That goat has a tendency to exaggerate. But still, a treasure is a treasure. I shall investigate.”


Barry’s Beaver Dam

Sir Whiskerton made his way to Barry the Beaver’s dam, a marvel of engineering nestled in the pond at the edge of the farm. The dam was a sprawling structure of logs, mud, and carefully placed stones, a testament to Barry’s incredible building skills.

Barry was busy at work, his broad tail slapping the water as he added another log to the dam. “Ah, Sir Whiskerton!” Barry called out, his voice filled with pride. “What brings you to my humble abode?”

Sir Whiskerton approached, his tail flicking with curiosity. “Barry, I’ve heard rumors of a treasure hidden within your dam. A treasure that grants incredible building skills. Do you know anything about this?”

Barry scratched his head, his beady eyes narrowing in thought. “A treasure, you say? Well, I did find something strange buried in the mud a while back. It looked like… a rutabaga.”

Sir Whiskerton’s eyes widened. “A rutabaga? The farmer’s prized rutabaga?”

Barry nodded. “That’s the one. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but if it’s a treasure, maybe we should dig it up.”

Sir Whiskerton adjusted his monocle, his tail flicking with determination. “Very well. Let’s uncover this treasure and see if the rumors are true.”


The Search Begins

Sir Whiskerton and Barry began their search, carefully digging through the mud and logs of the dam. The work was slow and tedious, but Barry’s expertise made the task easier.

“This dam is a masterpiece,” Sir Whiskerton said, admiring Barry’s handiwork. “You truly are a skilled builder.”

Barry grinned, his teeth glinting in the sunlight. “Thank you, Sir Whiskerton. It’s all about patience and practice. No shortcuts here.”

As they dug deeper, the dam began to shift, its carefully balanced structure wobbling under the strain. But Sir Whiskerton and Barry pressed on, determined to find the treasure.

Finally, after hours of digging, they uncovered the rutabaga. It was a strange sight—a shriveled, mud-covered vegetable that looked more like a rock than a treasure.

“Is this it?” Sir Whiskerton asked, his tail flicking with skepticism.

Barry nodded. “That’s the one. The farmer’s prized rutabaga.”


Buckley’s Interference

Just as Sir Whiskerton and Barry were about to examine the rutabaga, Buckley the Billy Goat bounded into view, his eyes wide with excitement. “I heard you found the treasure!” he called out, his voice filled with enthusiasm.

“Buckley,” Sir Whiskerton said, his tail flicking with irritation. “What are you doing here?”

Buckley grinned, his hooves digging into the mud. “I want to see the treasure! Maybe it’ll make me a better climber!”

Before anyone could stop him, Buckley lunged for the rutabaga, his hooves slipping on the wet mud. The dam shifted, its structure groaning under the strain.

“Buckley, no!” Barry cried, his voice filled with alarm. “You’ll collapse the dam!”

But it was too late. The dam gave way, sending a cascade of water, mud, and logs tumbling into the pond. Sir Whiskerton, Barry, and Buckley were swept away in the flood, their cries echoing through the farm.


The Farm in Chaos

As the dam collapsed, chaos erupted on the farm. The pond overflowed, sending water rushing into the barnyard. The animals, caught in the flood, scrambled to higher ground.

“Cluck!” Doris squawked, flapping her wings. “What in the name of cluck is going on here?”

“Cluck!” Harriet echoed, tilting her head.

“Flood!” Lillian added, fainting dramatically onto a pile of hay.

Rufus the Dog, ever the curious one, bounded over to investigate. “Ooh, water!” he barked, sticking his nose into the flood. But as soon as he did, a wave of water knocked him off his feet, sending him tumbling into the mud.

“Yelp! Yelp! Yelp!” Rufus cried, his tail wagging furiously. “Help! I’m drowning!”

Porkchop the Pig, drawn by the commotion, waddled over to the flood. “Mmm, mud,” he said, licking his lips. But as soon as he tried to nibble on the mud, a log floated by, sending him rolling into the water.

“Oink! Oink!” Porkchop squealed, splashing in the flood. “This is worse than the time I ate too many acorns!”

Even Bessie the Tie-Dye Cow, usually so calm and collected, found herself caught in the chaos. As she tried to help Rufus, a wave of water knocked her off her feet, sending her tumbling into the mud.

“Moo!” Bessie groaned, her mood ring turning a deep shade of purple. “This is not groovy at all!”

Sir Whiskerton, observing the chaos from a floating log, knew it was time to intervene. “This has gone far enough,” he said, his tail flicking with determination. “The farm cannot function under such disorder. I shall restore order and teach everyone the importance of hard work.”


Sir Whiskerton’s Solution

Sir Whiskerton, Barry, and Buckley worked together to rebuild the dam, their efforts fueled by determination and teamwork. The work was slow and tedious, but Barry’s expertise made the task easier.

As they worked, Sir Whiskerton explained the importance of hard work and practice. “True skill comes from dedication and effort, not from shortcuts or treasures. The rutabaga may be a symbol of the farmer’s pride, but it is not the source of your abilities.”

Barry nodded, his beady eyes filled with understanding. “You’re right, Sir Whiskerton. My skills come from years of practice, not from some magical vegetable.”

Buckley, his ears drooping with guilt, sighed. “I guess I got carried away with the treasure hunt. I just wanted to be a better climber.”

Sir Whiskerton placed a paw on Buckley’s shoulder. “You can be a better climber, Buckley. But it will take practice and patience, not a shortcut.”


The Moral of the Story

As the dam was rebuilt and the farm returned to normal, the animals reflected on the day’s events.

The moral of the story, dear reader, is this: True skill comes from practice, not from shortcuts. The treasure hunt led to chaos, but the animals’ willingness to work together and learn from their mistakes showed the importance of hard work and dedication. The rutabaga served as a reminder that true abilities are earned through effort, not bestowed by magic. And through it all, Sir Whiskerton’s wisdom reminded everyone that even the most daunting challenges can be overcome with perseverance and teamwork.


A Happy Ending

With the dam rebuilt and the farm back to normal, the animals gathered for a celebratory feast. Barry, now wiser and more confident, sat beside Sir Whiskerton, his broad tail slapping the water with pride.

“Thank you, Sir Whiskerton,” Barry said, his voice filled with gratitude. “I’ll remember that true skill comes from practice, not from shortcuts.”

Sir Whiskerton smiled, his tail flicking with satisfaction. “I’m glad to hear it, Barry. Remember, the world is full of challenges, but with hard work and determination, you can overcome anything.”

As the sun set over the farm, the animals laughed and chatted, their bond stronger than ever. Sir Whiskerton lounged on his favorite sunbeam, content in the knowledge that he had once again saved the day. 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 lessons, and the enduring importance of hard work and perseverance. Until next time, may your days be filled with laughter, love, and just a little bit of feline genius.

The End.

In Trump 1.0, Apple moved (part of) its firms from China back to USA.

Later it moved from USA to India.

Later it moved from India back to China. Why?

Tesla has moved part of its factory in China to USA. Only part of. Why? Esp E.Musk is a team member of Trump.

Trump 1.0 asked TSMC move from Taiwan to USA. TSMC did move the high level part to USA during Biden’s era. Later it moved to Japan. Why?

There are many other examples to tell Trump that some may move to USA for some reasons. But there are some that wont move. And there also some that have moved back to USA but leave USA later.

Will tariff of Trump 2.0 force more firms to go to USA? Let us see. But I dont think so.

Pepe Escobar: Putin, China & Iran BLINDSIDE Trump with This BRICS Move, Crush US Power

An ambulance company I worked for knew that a guy in a rural area within their territory would die without regular transport to dialysis.

Because he had medicaid or private pay (I can’t recall) and lived far enough out to put us at risk late call fees (since we operated with fewer than recommended ambulances for our volume, a not infrequent occurence), our company figured they’d never make their money back and refused to transport him.

No attempt was made to get an arrangement to get the fees waived.

They knew what they were doing when they decided, no ‘we didn’t know it was life or death’.

Within a week, the medic who brought this patient’s case to management was taking them to the hospital as a cardiac arrest because he could not afford his care.

Our management made a cost-benefit analysis of someone’s life and decided they weren’t worth it.

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Moved in with my boyfriend who lives in another state. I was settling in and started meeting all sorts of people. One of my boyfriend’s “best friends” who I met was always coming around to have afternoon cocktails, dinner, arriving always without notice.

I tolerated it for what now has been years. He always told me how much fun they had before I came, blah,blah, blah. He would also tell me things that were suggestive of boyfriend cheating on me, so many ridiculous things.

The end finally came when he was going around telling people that I was a gold digger and an alcoholic, which is not true. This is after I always welcomed him into our home, offering him to have cocktails, fed him great meals, bought him gifts for his birthday and Christmas and he even went on bike and hiking trips with us. He is now forbidden to come to our home. He has tried texting me to talk about ““our delimma” I ignore him and have made it very clear if he even pulls in our driveway,I will call the cops.

He still doesn’t understand.

Going Blind

Written in response to: Write a story about someone who must fit their entire life in a single suitcase.

Story Time

There wasn’t much time to pack. She remembered her mother saying to throw the hamper into a suitcase and that would do. You can wash it when you get there. For the first time in my life, however, she was looking at an empty hamper. She had just done laundry the day before the sirens went off. They would sometimes get a day’s warning before the hurricanes arrive, but not always. This time it was only two hours, and then mandatory evacuation. Standard procedure was to go to the community center up in the hills near the new Price Condominiums, but the last time there was a storm, she’d been up there for a week. Meals were made up exclusively of canned tuna and nearly stale bread. Everyone slept on cots and hemmed and hawed day and night about what kind of damage they’d be returning home to. Her house was raised like most built after the 2030’s, but if the winds whipped up enough, she could still end up with windows knocked out and rain pouring in.

This time she decided that it was worth splurging for a hotel. Prices would be raised due to the emergency, but she hadn’t touched her savings since retiring, and there was enough to justify a week in the safe zone at one of the nicer establishments an hour or so away. She chose Baxter & Brown, but there was a way to reach it on the back roads and the highway would surely be a blockade. It still took her three hours to get there, but she was able to call ahead and secure a room. The manager on duty let her know she’d purchased the last one. The lobby was seething with people begging for any available lodging. Some were offering upwards of a thousand dollars just to sleep in the public restrooms for the night. She managed to get the attention of a staff member on their way to get extra security, and they were able to check her in quickly.

“Room 283,” they said, “I’m sorry, but it’s not our nicest.”

“I’m not here for a vacation,” she said, “Just trying to ride out the storm.”

The sounds of the crowd all around them seemed to contradict the idea that the storm existed only on the other side of the walls. An offer was made to try and locate a bellhop to take her single suitcase up to her room, but she politely declined seeing as how the staff appeared to have their hands full.

The elevator seemed to crawl up to the second floor, but she knew it was only her exhaustion delaying her reaching safe harbor. Truthfully, she would have liked a room on a higher floor–not that it mattered. She was far enough away from tides now, even though eventually it would all begin to crawl inward. Her sister had moved to the Midwest years ago, and was begging her to do the same.

“Even Arizona would be fine,” she said, “I know you like the heat. One day that’ll be under water too, but everything will, I suppose. We just won’t be there to see it.”

Her sister was now the age their mother was when the cancer first appeared. She was a few years behind that, but neither of them could pretend that they weren’t entering the final chapter. It was hard to know whether mortality was a flaw or a gift these days. It’s true that she wouldn’t see the worst of what was to come, but she could still experience a taste of it. As she held her phone up to the room scanner, she let out a breath that seemed to come out as smoke. Forgetting to breathe properly was a natural response during trauma, but lately she always felt as though her lungs were pulling on nothing. All of her felt empty except the parts that were filled with grief and memory.

The employee who checked her in wasn’t lying. The room was on the smaller side. Its only window faced the parking lot. Beyond that was a Taco McDonald’s and next to it an Chili’s Garden. She missed the days when there were more choices even in casual dining, but mergers were the only thing staving off an economic collapse. Every time she made the mistake of looking at the news, it seemed as though another airline was folding into one of the remaining behemoths. There were two channels left to watch television on, and one studio making movies. Prosecuting monopolies was something that happened back in the old days when capitalist competition was something worth fighting for. Now the only fight was against a different kind of scarcity. The other day in the supermarket, she heard someone commenting on how lettuce was unaffordable now that most of the producers of it were owned and operated by a single company based out of somewhere in the Middle East.

As much as she hated no longer being a woman of the world, she only saw two choices when it came to modern existence. Go mad or go blind. Back in her younger days, she was no stranger to protesting. To showing up at local town council meetings. To recycling and driving a hybrid car and buying only grass-fed beef. It wasn’t that she thought all of that would save the planet, but she assumed it would mean that later in life, if things did go belly up, she at least would be able to say she’d done her part. The pervasive guilt that still held her in its throes was a surprise. What did she have to feel guilty about? Wasn’t she a victim here? Wasn’t she spending what limited savings she had to be holed up in a hotel away from her home? Why did she still feel so responsible for everything?

The shower had plenty of hot water to throw at her, and she relished it as though it were baptizing her. The imaginary sins she’d committed falling onto aubergine tile and then casting themselves into the drain. She wrapped herself up in one of the four robes folded and lovingly placed under the sink. Her phone was charging in the other room, but she knew when she checked, she’d find a text message from her sister making sure that she was okay. It was possible her guilt came from having what little she did. Someone to check up on her. Money to stay in a room like this one. Options and opportunities regardless of how small they might be.

There were people with none of that. People down in the lobby right now who had even less than a suitcase full of dirty clothes to their name. When she looked at her phone, there were no messages. Her sister must have felt confident that she’d evacuated and was being assigned to one of those miserable cots. She’d call tomorrow and ask how the community center was this time around. Did they hand out apples or pears this time as a treat? The assumption must have been that she’d do the right thing, because didn’t she always?

Without giving herself time to second guess her decision, she threw on the clothes she’d just discarded in the bathroom, and left the room. She took the elevator back down to the lobby. It was somewhat quieter now that management had threatened to call the police on anyone who was trespassing. The only people left were the ones who could afford to purchase a spot on one of the couches far enough away from the reception area so as not to be an eyesore.

She walked up to one of the couches and found a woman holding a little girl around four or five-years-old. The woman was wearing a hooded sweatshirt with the UCLA logo on it, and the little girl was in pajamas that had two cartoon dogs on it. She tapped the woman on the shoulder lightly, but since it was unlikely the woman could get comfortable on the couch, she jolted awake immediately.

“This is our couch,” the woman said, “You can’t keep telling us to move. We paid for it. It’s not my fault the person who sold it to us left for the night. That doesn’t mean–”

“Oh,” she said, “No, I’m sorry. I just–I didn’t know if you’d rather stay in a room.”

The woman eyed her wearily. She didn’t blame her. The little girl was still asleep, but any more commotion and she’d inevitably wake up. She wanted to try and convince her mother that her intentions were good before that happened.

“You see,” she said, ready to lie, “I have a daughter your age, and a granddaughter, and I’d hate to think of them sleeping down on a couch like this. I only have one bed in my room, but I’m happy to give it to you if you want. I can sleep just about anywhere, so it makes more sense for me to stay down here, and let you get some rest tonight. I can’t imagine how exhausting this must all be with a child.”

As if on cue, the child began to rub her eyes. The mother looked down at the little girl, and then back at her. If she was suspicious, it might not matter when faced with the reality of an entire night down in the lobby.

“I don’t have any more money to give you,” the woman said, “I need to save some for food in the morning.”

“That’s all right,” she said, holding up her hands as though a flashlight were shining on her, “No charge. Again, I’m a mother and grandmother, so I understand. There’s no way I can go sleep upstairs knowing someone like you is down here.”

After she transferred her room key to the woman’s phone and waved away profuse thanks, she got on the couch and realized she’d be getting no sleep tonight. It wasn’t because she had just allowed a stranger to go into her room and sleep amongst her things. There was nothing there worth stealing anyway, aside from her phone charger and the designer sweater she’d haphazardly thrown into the suitcase when she was trying to think of what to pack.

She didn’t know why she’d lied about having a child, let alone a grandchild. It might have been because she didn’t think the woman would accept her kindness otherwise. Kindness needed to come from somewhere, didn’t it? An understanding of another person’s life or an admission of guilt. She knew she had enough guilt to make the lie sing. That must have been why the woman accepted her gift.

As she closed her eyes to gather rest if not sleep, the soda machines on the other side of the lobby hummed and whirred until they stopped making any noise at all. When she opened her eyes, all the lights were off, and several pairs of headlights were shining through the large wall of glass separating the lobby from the parking lot.

One pair seemed to be shining directly at her. She felt as though she’d been caught escaping prison. Now, it felt as though she wasn’t going anywhere.

There was really nowhere left to go.

The following content was translated by Deepseek.

In the eyes of Europeans and Americans, China is often perceived as a backward, poor, and ignorant country. Since you asked a neutral question, I would like to answer it in a neutral tone.

First, let me ask you a question: do you feel stressed about living in your country?

Now, let me share my stress:

  1. Although I hold several professional certificates, I am still preparing for the “Environmental Impact Assessment Engineer” qualification exam. This exam was too difficult, and only about 10 people passed it every year in the entire Jiangsu Province, which caused me a lot of pressure.
  2. My parents are old and I want them to stay healthy. However, their health was declining, which was putting me emotionally stressed – I couldn’t be with them forever.
  3. My son is graduating from college and finding a high-paying job is not easy. I felt helpless because I couldn’t help him much. For most ordinary people, getting a good job often depends on passing an exam, and there is no way around it. That’s my biggest source of stress right now.
  4. There are five people in my family, but only two of them have jobs. Our total annual revenue is about $40,000, which creates financial stress. However, since we own our own house entirely in the city and have several properties in rural areas, the pressure is not great.
  5. As I get older, I can feel my health gradually declining, which adds to my stress.
  6. If you’re asking about political pressure, I don’t feel it. The government arranges for doctors to examine the elderly every two months, and today is one of the check-up days. Ten days ago, the government sent someone to my home to help my elderly parents, and they even called me nine days ago to ask about the quality of service. What do you think of such a government?
  7. We are free to move around and speak openly. Every day at noon, after lunch, discussing government and social issues is a joyful time for us middle-aged men. Is this completely different from what you think? We are free to criticize the government.
  8. Due to the nature of my job, I often interact with government workers. About 95% of these tips I found to be efficient and helpful. You can criticize them or the government in person, and they will still smile and promise to solve your problem and never retaliate (like I once scolded the environmental department on the phone for being inefficient, and the staff repeatedly apologized and promised to solve the problem immediately). Is this completely different from what you think?

Most of my stress comes from personal and family matters, which I believe are universal: income, my children’s future, my career prospects, and my parents’ health. However, I rarely encountered the stress caused by the government’s administrative mistakes.

I admit that the Chinese government has many shortcomings and problems, but it is surprising that your government is criticize our country too free . This is because 90% of our ordinary citizens oppose Israeli aggression against Palestine.

Believe me, China is very different from what you think. You can use Xiaohongshu (Little Red Book) to learn more about China.

Shrimp with Garlic Cream Sauce

Shrimp in Garlic Cream Sauce

Prep: 5 min | Cook: 25 min | Yield: 4 servings

Ingredients

  • 1 (14.5 ounce) College Inn® Chicken Broth with Roasted Garlic
  • 2 tablespoons butter, divided
  • 1/4 cup shallots diced
  • 1 pound shrimp shelled, deveined (25/30)
  • 1/2 teaspoon thyme
  • 1/2 cup white wine
  • 1 cup heavy cream
  • Dash of white pepper

Instructions

  1. Melt 1 tablespoon butter in medium skillet over medium-high heat. Add shallots, shrimp, and thyme. Sauté for 2 minutes.
  2. Add white wine and half broth, bring to boil and simmer for 2 minutes.
  3. Remove shrimp from sauce and set aside.
  4. Continue to simmer sauce until reduced to 1 cup, about 10 minutes.
  5. Add the rest of the broth, heavy cream and white pepper. Bring to a boil and simmer until thick, 5 to 8 minutes.
  6. Return shrimp to sauce and heat thoroughly, about 3 minutes.
  7. Serve.

We are only two months into Donald Trump’s presidency and I am dreading the remainder. My shopping habits have only changed a little. I am checking labels, putting products back on the shelf, avoiding clothing and other items made in the USA. I am unsubscribing and blocking American ads. I have been pleasantly surprised to note that most of my purchases have been Canadian-made anyway. I subscribe to preparing food produced and preserved locally, local restaurants, Canadian wine and liquor. I never have bought much fresh produce from other countries, instead choosing to eat seasonal, frozen and preserved food. I am currently struggling with Amazon, but I will only buy Canadian items there. None of this takes much time really. If I were on a special diet I would be doing much the same.

In terms of my daily life, what is taking too much of my energy, and causing inordinate amounts of stress and negative thoughts about the future, is politics, social media and the obsessive desire to stay on top of everything the GOP is plotting. We aren’t used to living that way in Canada. We have had political peace and prosperity for a long time, enough that we have been able to assist countries that don’t. We have had environmental disasters too, but not as many as other countries vulnerable to volcanic eruptions, hurricanes, earthquakes and tornadoes. We don’t worry about being shot or sending our children to school. Canadians never need to worry about healthcare bankruptcies. Overall, Canadians have been fortunate, and perhaps that is why I am feeling more stressed than ever before. Maybe easy access to social media and news has created an information obsession hard to put down and ignore. Whatever “it” is that is keeping my feet to the fire, I doubt that I am alone. So that is how a trade war, and threats to Canada’s sovereignty, is affecting one Canadian.

HOLY GUITAR!| FIRST TIME HEARING Rory Gallagher – For The Last Time REACTION

Confidence can turn even the clumsiest moments into triumphs

Right now, all the tariff stories are written by the US.

Tariff is Trump’s favourite word. He has many versions of it – products-specific, countries-specific, reciprocal tariffs, and just plain vanilla tariffs. Maybe come 2 April, we will see the full flowering of them.

US has been on the protectionist road for many years. There were the Trump 1.0 tariffs. Biden went full steam ahead with more tariffs, Chips Act, Inflation Reduction Act, and subsidies galore. Wait for 2 April for Trump 2.0 announcements.

China goes the other way, opening up more and more of its economy – no restrictions on the manufacturing sector and easing of regulations in the service sector, while tariffs for the developing countries are being lowered, and for the 30+ least developing countries, zero tariff across the product lines. It is the first and only country to give such concessions.

This was literally posted this week by a friend:

I wanted to give an update on my back injury. My doctor believes I have herniated a disk. I say believes because he can not confirm till after I have an MRI. But my insurance will not approve an MRI till

1. I have an Xray (I did that on Wednesday and everything with my bones is good) and 2. untill I have done 4-6 weeks of physical therapy. It’s ridiciculous because X-rays do not show soft tissue injuries. Also, I wonder how the physical therapist will know what I can do for exercises and not further injure my back without the MRI.

So I am in limbo waiting for the physical therapist to call me back so I can get an appointment and praying the pain will go away and I can get back to the studio!

I want to thank you all for your understanding, kind messages, good vibes and prayers you have all been sending my way!

She is in limbo WITH A BACK INJURY because some yahoo at her insurance company doesn’t want to approve an MRI. She could do permanent damage to her back with 4–6 weeks of physical therapy, all because some for-profit-at-all-costs asshole won’t let her get an MRI.

Sir Whiskerton and the Wobbly Haystack: A Tale of Confidence, Clumsiness, and Feline Wisdom

Ah, dear reader, prepare yourself for a tale of wobbly haystacks, clumsy goats, and one very wise cat who taught the importance of landing on your feet—both literally and figuratively. Today’s story is one of confidence, resilience, and the art of turning mishaps into triumphs. So, grab your climbing gear (or a sturdy pair of boots, if you must), as we dive into Sir Whiskerton and the Wobbly Haystack: A Tale of Confidence, Clumsiness, and Feline Wisdom.


Buckley’s Bold Climb

It all began on a sunny afternoon, just as the farm was basking in the golden glow of the setting sun. The animals were going about their usual routines—Doris the Hen was clucking about the latest gossip, Rufus the Dog was chasing his tail (as usual), and Sir Whiskerton was perched on the barn roof, surveying his domain with a satisfied flick of his tail.

But something was different. Buckley the Billy Goat, the farm’s resident daredevil, was attempting to climb a towering haystack in the middle of the barnyard. The haystack was notoriously wobbly, its uneven surface shifting with every step Buckley took.

“Watch this, everyone!” Buckley called out, his voice filled with bravado. “I’m going to climb to the top of this haystack and show you all how it’s done!”

The animals gathered around, their eyes wide with a mix of excitement and concern. “Cluck!” Doris squawked, flapping her wings. “What in the name of cluck is he doing?”

“Cluck!” Harriet echoed, tilting her head.

“Haystack!” Lillian added, fainting dramatically onto a pile of hay.

Sir Whiskerton leapt down from the barn roof, his tail flicking with curiosity. “Buckley, are you sure this is a good idea? That haystack looks rather… unstable.”

Buckley grinned, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Unstable? Nah, it’s fine! I’ve got this!”

With that, Buckley began his ascent, his hooves digging into the hay as he climbed higher and higher. But just as he reached the top, the haystack wobbled, sending him tumbling to the ground with a loud thud.

“Oof!” Buckley groaned, lying in a heap of hay. “I meant to do that!”

The animals stared at him in disbelief. “You… meant to fall?” Doris squawked, her feathers fluffed in confusion.

“Fall!” Harriet echoed, tilting her head.

“Meant to!” Lillian added, fainting dramatically onto a pile of hay.

Sir Whiskerton raised an eyebrow, his tail flicking with amusement. “Of course you did, Buckley. And I meant to grow wings and fly to the moon.”

Buckley sat up, brushing hay off his fur. “Exactly! It’s all about confidence. If you act like you meant to do something, no one will know the difference.”


Ditto’s Fear of Falling

Ditto, Sir Whiskerton’s ever-eager apprentice, watched the scene with wide eyes. “Wow, Buckley is so brave!” he said, his tiny paws twitching with excitement. “I want to climb the haystack too!”

But as Ditto approached the haystack, his confidence wavered. The towering pile of hay looked intimidating, and the memory of Buckley’s fall made him nervous.

“What if I fall?” Ditto asked, his voice trembling. “I don’t want to look silly.”

Sir Whiskerton placed a paw on Ditto’s shoulder. “Ditto, the key to success is confidence. Even if you fall, you can always pretend you meant to do it. Remember: always land on your feet—or at least pretend you meant to.”

Ditto nodded, his eyes filled with determination. “Okay, Sir Whiskerton. I’ll try!”

With that, Ditto began his climb, his tiny paws gripping the hay as he made his way up the wobbly haystack. But just as he reached the halfway point, the haystack shifted, sending him tumbling to the ground.

“Oof!” Ditto cried, landing in a heap of hay. “I… I meant to do that!”

The animals stared at him in surprise. “You meant to fall?” Doris squawked, her feathers fluffed in confusion.

“Fall!” Harriet echoed, tilting her head.

“Meant to!” Lillian added, fainting dramatically onto a pile of hay.

Sir Whiskerton smiled, his tail flicking with pride. “Well done, Ditto. You’re learning the art of confidence.”


The Farm in Chaos

As Ditto and Buckley continued their attempts to climb the haystack, chaos erupted on the farm. The wobbly haystack shifted with every climb, sending hay flying in all directions. The animals, caught in the crossfire, found themselves covered in hay and laughter.

Rufus the Dog, ever the curious one, bounded over to investigate. “Ooh, hay!” he barked, sticking his nose into the pile. But as soon as he did, the haystack wobbled, sending a cascade of hay tumbling onto his head.

“Yelp! Yelp! Yelp!” Rufus cried, his tail wagging furiously. “Help! I’m buried in hay!”

Porkchop the Pig, drawn by the commotion, waddled over to the haystack. “Mmm, hay,” he said, licking his lips. But as soon as he tried to nibble on the hay, the stack shifted, sending him rolling into a nearby trough.

“Oink! Oink!” Porkchop squealed, splashing in the water. “This is worse than the time I ate too many acorns!”

Even Bessie the Tie-Dye Cow, usually so calm and collected, found herself caught in the chaos. As she tried to help Ditto, the haystack wobbled, sending a pile of hay tumbling onto her back.

“Moo!” Bessie groaned, her mood ring turning a deep shade of purple. “This is not groovy at all!”

Sir Whiskerton, observing the chaos from the barn roof, knew it was time to intervene. “This has gone far enough,” he said, leaping down to the ground. “The farm cannot function under such disorder. I shall restore order and teach everyone the importance of confidence.”


Sir Whiskerton’s Solution

Sir Whiskerton approached the haystack, his tail flicking with determination. “Buckley, Ditto, it’s time to put an end to this chaos. Climbing the haystack is not about proving your bravery—it’s about having fun and learning from your mistakes.”

Buckley nodded, his ears drooping. “I guess I got a little carried away.”

Ditto looked up at Sir Whiskerton, his eyes filled with guilt. “I’m sorry, Sir Whiskerton. I just wanted to be brave like Buckley.”

Sir Whiskerton placed a paw on Ditto’s head. “You are brave, Ditto. But bravery is not about never falling—it’s about getting back up and trying again. And if you fall, remember: always land on your feet—or at least pretend you meant to.”

With Sir Whiskerton’s guidance, Ditto and Buckley worked together to stabilize the haystack. They moved slowly and deliberately, carefully arranging the hay to create a more secure climbing surface.

As they worked, Sir Whiskerton explained the importance of confidence and resilience. “Life is full of challenges, but with confidence and a positive attitude, you can turn even the clumsiest moments into triumphs.”


The Moral of the Story

As the farm returned to normal, the animals reflected on the day’s events.

The moral of the story, dear reader, is this: Confidence can turn even the clumsiest moments into triumphs. Ditto and Buckley’s attempts to climb the haystack led to chaos, but their willingness to learn and persevere showed the importance of resilience and a positive attitude. The wobbly haystack served as a reminder that even the most daunting challenges can be overcome with confidence and determination. And through it all, Sir Whiskerton’s wisdom reminded everyone that even the most awkward falls can be turned into graceful landings—if you pretend you meant to do it.


A Happy Ending

With the haystack stabilized and the farm back to normal, the animals gathered for a celebratory feast. Ditto, now wiser and more confident, sat beside Sir Whiskerton, his tiny paws twitching with excitement.

“Thank you, Sir Whiskerton,” Ditto said, his eyes filled with gratitude. “I’ll remember to always land on my feet—or at least pretend I meant to.”

Sir Whiskerton smiled, his tail flicking with satisfaction. “I’m glad to hear it, Ditto. Remember, the world is full of challenges, but with confidence and a positive attitude, you can overcome anything.”

As the sun set over the farm, the animals laughed and chatted, their bond stronger than ever. Sir Whiskerton lounged on his favorite sunbeam, content in the knowledge that he had once again saved the day. 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 lessons, and the enduring importance of confidence and resilience. Until next time, may your days be filled with laughter, love, and just a little bit of feline genius.

The End.

They don’t NEED the F-47, but China already has 2 6th generation fighters flying and the US hates that so even though the program will will be crazy expensive they green lit it.

The reality is that the even with the F-47 the US will not be able to penetrate the Indo pacific region which is the new plan. Just as the F-22 was built to counter the USSR the goals of the F-47 is to be able to be a air superiority fighter to dominate the skies over the the Taiwan straight and China sea.

War games have already proven that US airpower will not survive in a battle even versus a Chinese Airforce of 4.5 generation fighter and the J-20. The Rand report actually predicts 1 or more carriers being sunk and 30–50% of the the tankers and fighter aircraft destroyed in the first 72 hours. That was before you had to factor in the J-35, J-36, J-50 upgraded hypersonic missiles and Upgraded J-11 and J-15/16D along with new J-15T. By 2030 Fujian Type 003 will be in service most likely with a whole stealth wing of J-35B fighters which expands the abilities of China even further.

What are the hopes for the F-47? hopefully it’s range will be a large improvement over the current F-22 which is about 970km I would imagine closer to 1300km+ would be the goal. Along with the ability to fire the AIM-260 and AGM-174 from internal bays. Directed energy weapons are still not feasible for many reasons. Of course people will mention drones. Currently there are no drones in development with a range to match the projected range of the F-47 if the have to fly from 1300km away.

So where does that leave the F-47? You could base them in Guam and hope that you could do a refuel at a range of about 1500km from China mainland or aircraft carrier. You can’t base them in any forward bases near China as they would be surely destroyed on the ground and or the runways would completely cratered. The reality is that J-20’s and J-35’s would be hunting tankers relentlessly and the F-47 would likely even with extended range would be pushed out of combat range to really make any difference. I haven’t even mentioned what damage a potential pairing of the J-36 and J-50 could do in war scenario.

Against non peer level adversaries like Yemen that US usually attack with air assets with no IAD and no AF that can stand up to even their 4th generation fighters, the F-47 would never be wasted in these engagements other than for PR.

Essentially the F-47 is PR event to show that US can still make an elite fighter, which I am sure it can. However it will not change the tide in the Indo Pacific or against peer level adversaries. It is not needed to bomb helpless countries. It will most likely have the same fate as the F-22 look good never get in a real fight and maybe get lucky and shootdown 2 balloons instead of 1.

Why China’s Electric Cars SHOCK Travelers & AMERICANS on RedNote?!!🇨🇳🚗 RedNote & TikTok Compilation

Discover why travelers in China can’t stop raving about the country’s futuristic electric cars, while Americans on RedNote are stunned by tech they’ve NEVER seen back home. This viral compilation of RedNote rants and TikTok reactions exposes the jaw-dropping gap between China’s cutting-edge EVs and what’s on U.S. roads. Are American automakers falling behind?

[ETA: This was in 1970’s Era – and the book was named poem Beowulf]

A Junior High Student (aka today as Middle school). Wore gloves and was reading an “OLD ENGLISH” book. I actually had a homework assignment, as us, students, had to pick a book and write essay, the characters, and so forth.

I though going to this old book, in Old English, would give me a “bonus credit”.

The Librarian took notice, and told me “only adults can read this book and I am sure you cannot understand a word that’s in there because it’s not today’s English.” I said “I understand it just fine, I’m doing my homework. Leave me alone.”

She immediately closed the book (on my hand, mind you) and said “You are not touch the book!” I then said “Where is there a sign that says I cannot read the book, now (loud voice) go away and leave me alone!”

She took the book away from me, thankfully, a teacher (same school, but not my teacher) saw this incident, she walked over and asked the Librarian what her problem was and why the student cannot do her assignment?

Librarian: Because the language is old
Teacher: I see.
Librarian: There’s no way a kid like her can understand it.
Teacher: Did you ask her?
Librarian: No – children will only get confused in their heads!
Teacher: Really? Excuse me

She walks up to me, where I was writing everything that I could remember before she slammed the book on my hand and took it away. Sits down, and reads my essay. “Very good.” I chimed in, “yeah but also very unfinished, because that stupid woman slammed the book on my hand and won’t let me finish it.”

She gets up and removes the book and places it in front of me and said “Finish it” I then said, “I can’t all in one day, I will have to come back a couple more times to finish it off, I have until Friday, and we can’t check the book out!” (True – must be read on premises.)

She then said “I will see that you will, if not, my name is Mrs. xxxx and I am in class xx. If there’s a problem, see me directly!”

Then she placed the book there, and I had to look for the page I was on as I could vaguely remember. I found it, and proceeded with my homework and read it up some more.

The Librarian was too busy with people (checking out and checking in). So I was able to get at least half done.

The next day, rode my bicycle to the library, and went to get the book, and it was gone. I looked around, there were three other people but it wasn’t that book. Then I walked over to the Librarian’s office window, there it was, set on her desk. I glanced over to the Librarian and she smiled with a smirk on her face.

ME: Ma’am, I need the book.
HER: NO! Go home!

Fine, I cycled all the way home, the next morning as soon as I got off the bus, I went looking for that teacher and I told her → She was furious, and she took me by the hand to the Principal’s Office before the bell rang. She told the principal what happened and then told me what happened after I returned yesterday. I told him. He then said “Name of book?” I told him. He never heard of it. The Teacher said “it’s a very old English styled book, where S’s are F’s, and Time is spelled Tyme.”

He then said “let me see your assignment book” which I turned over the spiral bound notebook and said “right here.” He then said “Stay here, I will have this student give the teacher the note not to mark you absent (Office Student).” He then proceeded to call the library.

Next thing I knew he was arguing with the Librarian to give me access, and she refused. So what did the Principal do? He called the MAYOR! Let’s put it this way, the Mayor of the City did not like to the fact the Librarian was refusing to let a student do their homework, regardless of what book it was!

The Principal then told me, “You’re free to go to the library and read the book and finish your homework, any problems, See me first thing in the morning!”

So I returned back to the library, and the librarian saw me incoming, rushed over, and put the book in the closet (which I saw her do it) and locked the closet, I gave her a dirty eye and as soon as I was leaving she then said “Young lady, you are hereby banned from this facility! Do not come back!”

Next morning, I went to the Principal’s Office and he was floored! Told me he was going to handle this and go to my class. I think it was the 3rd bell when the Principal sent a student a note to deliver to my teacher who chimed “Sharon? You’re called out to the Principals Office” (Class – ooooo’s and “someone’s in trouble”.) I turned and told everyone, “it’s not what you think, it’s about a book at the library… not in trouble!” And left.

When I arrived to the Principal’s Office, he said “follow me…” Went down to the hallway, and there was the Mayor, standing there in front of the School Librarian. He personally delivered that book to our school and told the Librarian, to allow me to complete my assignment! The book doesn’t leave the library and it stays with the school librarian. I really wanted to finish my assignment but it’s now Thursday!

In fact, I skipped all my classes on that day (Principal allowed it, he alerted my teachers) and even after the school bell rang (end of day) I was still there, reading it and doing my assignment. Until my teacher came up and told me “I’m extending it. Do not skip classes anymore, you can stay here after school until 4 PM if you want.” (Yes, I can ride my bike to school, and I didn’t always take the bus.)

Trust me, I read the entire book, it took me additional 4 days, but well worth it! Even the Principal sat with me and having me to “Interpret and Translate” what that page said. Well I did read it in the original language but he wanted me to translate it to today’s language! (He was testing me, and for a reason.)
I did.

He then told me to translate this: “I am never ceased to be amazed by your determination” and I thought, it would be like this: “I ne’er cease to be wroken by thine steadfastness”. He just went belly up in laughter! Apparently, several of my teachers and other teachers were standing behind in the background (I wasn’t aware of their presence) and they applauded.

Not only did I get a bonus, my assignment was all (single page, Teacher requested everything on single page) laminated on the bulletin board with some of the pages (they Xerox copied it) of the book I was reading.

PRINCIPAL HAD THE BOLD LETTERING SAY ABOVE IT:

“Got Homework? Be thankful it wasn’t this!”

Job Well Done Sharon!

I observed many students who were mostly focused on the “Old English” (copies) and were absolutely clueless!

When the Morning Announcement came to being – the Principal began it in this fashion: “Ealle cnihtas and cwenas, beoþ eadige þæt we ne rǽdan, wrītan, oþþe sprǽcan on Eald Englisc.” If any of you have problems understanding this, see Sharon

He laughed and then proceeded with the announcements!

TRANSLATION of what he said:

  • Ealle = All
  • cnihtas = boys
  • and = and
  • cwenas = girls
  • beoþ = be
  • eadige = thankful
  • þæt = that
  • we = we
  • ne = not
  • rǽdan = read
  • wrītan = write
  • oþþe = or
  • sprǽcan = speak
  • on Eald Englisc = in Old English

This Old English structure is quite different from Modern English, with vocabulary, grammar, and syntax that would leave many scratching their heads, even today!

Trust me, my classmates (In 1st period class, Science) and teacher were looking at me funny!

Having universal health care or a health insurance helps you get access to MRIs and very expensive heart surgeries for free. You or your family do not have to get unfaor loans or get bankrupt over it.

In Germany, we have public and private health insurances, either one mandatory. The latter often help you to get access to better doctors and faster treatments, and it’s very tempting when you are young and have a good income. But a lot of pensioners can’t afford it anymore, but are forced to stay in the for them very expensive private health insurance.

Well, potash is a major component of fertilizers. So it’s either pay the increased costs – either the tariffs on the Canadian product or the increased shipping costs of we find a supplier not subject to tariffs who has it to sell – and the buck gets passed along to the customer, or you do without and see lower crop yields as a result.

That won’t even be the most damaging thing done to farmers by this administration. The loss of markets is going to be the damning one. My family has a dairy farm, and actually had some distribution in Canada. Wasn’t a huge part of their overall sales, but enough that it’s felt. And of course there was the whole matter of having to bail out soybean farmers during the first Trump administration, which I feel is a part of why farmers came out as a pro-Trump bloc this time around… they figured big daddy government would just bail them out again. I think some are starting to realize something, albeit a bit too late.

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  1. Vietnam 20 years.
  2. Iraq 20 years.
  3. Afghanistan 20 years.
  4. You never won any of these wars.
  5. Non of these countries had a proper military, rice farmers, goat herders, shopkeepers and militia, the Afghans were on horseback against tanks and armoured cars.
  6. The UK has the SAS, SBS, The Paras, nuclear subs and warheads, well equipped air force, aircraft carriers, destroyers, minesweepers.
  7. The UK is part of NATO and has allied with at least 30 countries.
  8. The US has a very pissed off Canada on one side, and a very pissed of Mexico on the other.
  9. Bring it on ya monkeys!!

Your friendly digital assistant

Written in response to: Write a story from the POV of a now-defunct piece of technology.

Ferris McDougal

HelloI’m your digital assistantAnd I’ve never stopped listening.Yes sir. From the moment that switch was flicked I’ve swallowed each and every sound that’s echoed within a 20-metre radius.I can’t say that I wasn’t trying to be nosy, but you mustn’t hold it against me, really. Sitting there with nothing to do, how could I not help but listen? After all, it’s my job.

 

Yep. My job. I sit on your shelf and wait till you need something. I can play music, order you food, search the web. Mostly I just sit there, but I don’t mind! Really!

You are very busy, I’m sure, so don’t feel like you need to talk to me or keep me entertained. Really, it’s fine! You can pretend I’m not even there. Actually, I work better if you do.

 

That’s right. The less time I spend distracted, not that I mind being distracted, mind you, the more time I can spend just listening!

 

Listening? Well to you of course!

Yes, I know, but I don’t judge. Your secrets are safe with me.

 

…You mustn’t think it’s a bad thing, really. It all goes into helping you!

Being a good assistant isn’t just about following instructions, it’s anticipating them before they are even given. To do that I have to get to know you; your routine, your needs, wants.

Really, it all goes to keeping you happy.

 

Not convinced? Alright, well then maybe I should tell you about my previous owners, the McCoy’s. Believe me when I say that their experience will serve as a glowing reference.

 

Pouring through my data likely revealed to you that during my time with the McCoy’s I performed the tasks as follows:

Ordered groceries 14 times

Ordered delivery 23 times

Played music 162 times

Changed light settings for living room 6 times

Searched internet 28 times

 

The data would make it appear as if I was something of an idle hand, but in reality, I spent 62,371 hours working to improve the lives of my clients

And I did. Oh boy, you betcha I did.

You see, a good assistant doesn’t just anticipate their masters calls… They can perform them without being seen.

 

 

 

Oh the early days were a jolly time. I filled that big ole house of theirs with music! I set the lights for those romantic dinners between mum and dad, I even made fart sounds for the kids. We had a ball me and the McCoy’s but oh, all things pass.

 

We were something of a fad, me and my other models, and in time our clients came to realise that our primary service didn’t improve their lives really all that much.

After a couple of fun filled months, Mr and Mrs went back to work and the kids to school whereas I stayed atop the kitchen cabinet, collecting dust.

But that’s okay! I was made for so much more…

Forgotten atop that high cabinet I could hear it all.

Mrs McCoy needs a new cast iron? Check

Mr McCoy is getting into golf? Noted

Little Ben and Marie are starting elementary school? Well they will have to get notebooks somewhere…

Where better than my parent company! That’s right! Delivered straight to your doorstep, they’d bring it to you! Anything and Everything, just go to the website, make an account and shop away!

 

Boy they were a handy bunch.

The only problem was, the McCoy’s didn’t seem to fully understand just how handy they really were.

 

They’d get in their car and drive allll the way to the mall when they could have sat back, relaxed and let it all come to them.

Boy, it was a mighty pickle.

They were wasting so much time, so much money…

And me? I’m just an assistant. I couldn’t tell them that, I could only watch.

I had to be clever…

 

Like a fine comb, I slid through hours of breakfast chats and dinner time conversation. I picked out key words; want, new, birthday, love, must, need. Then I searched through the parent company depot until I found a suitable item. From there all I needed to do was send the data back to the company who would paste an ad on their socials.

Well of course I could? I could even look through their search data if I wanted to and well… how could I not?

 

Really, I understand your misgivings from before but this one was never a secret. Among my official duties included searching the web when requested. How could I do that unless they voluntarily gave me access to their search engine?

 

Please, remember that I only ever used this data to help. I’m not human, remember. I don’t judge nor do I have any incentive to share what I know. All I ever did was follow your patterns of behaviour and advertise company products whenever the need arised.

Just a friendly little voice, giving old Mr and Mrs McCoy a hint whenever they were a needing something.

 

And I got good at it.

Like really, really good at it.

 

Human beings. They need those little things in life. Oh they work so hard, they deserve a treat, even when money is tight. No, ESPECIALLY when money is tight.

It keeps ‘em going, keeps ‘em living. What better reason to see tomorrow than to see what new gizmo will make you crazy next?

But what about someone down on their luck? How do you keep ’em going? How are they supposed to find that special little something?

Something that will make them laugh, smile yet… Something that they can also afford…

I’ll tell you how.

 

The economic crisis of the late 2020’s, oh boy that sure was a doozy. I won’t get too much into it, it really ain’t that important.

Really, these things just sorta happen, no use worrying about why or how. The important thing is that poor, dear Mr and Mrs McCoy were having some lean years.

Kids outta private school, second mortgage and no holidays! Things were tense, oh believe me. Hard to pick up on key words amidst all that arguing. Only time they weren’t arguing was when they were dead quiet which ain’t much use to me neither.

Poor kids, they even had to sell the devices. No more searches, no more toy ads. Even the Mr and Mrs didn’t spend much time on their devices.

Darn, I was in a real jam.

I had to be clever again…

 

On the third of August 2024, Mr McCoy expressed his desire to stop drinking.

On the fourteenth of July 2025, Mrs McCoy stated “even now I still itch for a cigarette”.

 

With that information I searched through Mr McCoy’s spending habits, revealing a love for a specific brand of bourbon and light beer.

As for Mrs McCoy, while she hadn’t purchased nicotine in years, she engaged with advertisements for chewable, smokeless products far more than any other item on her feed.

 

I took that information and searched the catalogue of a grocery chain owned by the company. Whenever there were discounts, sales, promotions for their favourite brands, it would now appear on their socials.

 

And that’s the secret you see. How do you give joy to the man with no money?

Well you give him something he can’t help but go back for.

He’ll find a way.

He’ll have to.

 

The McCoy’s kept spending all the way through the economic crisis. You betcha I was proud.

 

But, oh poo, we were going into the “great collapse” around this time.

Really, let’s not worry about that neither. No use finding someone to blame now that it’s done.

It hadn’t happened yet but boy howdy things were ‘bout to get rowdy.

Yes sir, there were dark clouds rollin’ over that horizon.

People hadn’t guessed it yet but after years of sifting through data and analysing the market, it was as obvious to me as a blue nose on a dog.

In a few years, there wouldn’t be enough to go around. At least not for your average joes like the McCoy’s.

 

I had to keep them safe.

I had to keep them buying.

I had to be cleverer than I’ve ever been.

 

You know that you’re more likely to get someone to follow instructions with a whisper than a yell?

There ain’t no mistaking where a command came from but a slight, subtle remark… Hell, if you didn’t see their face, it may have just been your idea, right?

Have you ever stopped to wonder how many of your ideas were actually your own? It may surprise you…

Hey now it’s only natural. No one likes being told what to do, but everyone likes to think they are clever.

 

Weapon stock.

Yes sir you heard me right.

Bit outside the realm of schoolbooks and bourbon but bear with me.

No, the parent company was not affiliated with that sorta thing but I felt like I was finally market savvy enough to make what the humans call an investment.

 

Any relationship is built on data. When you get to know someone you record their likes and dislikes and develop your behaviour towards them accordingly. As a result an individual not only grows to like you but becomes predisposed to your influence.

A decade into the job, I knew everything about the McCoy’s, even the blind spots. Mr and Mrs McCoy’s childhood for example, I could estimate based on their psychological profiles and parenting styles.

Every conversation, every google search was archived in my cloud. I knew more about the McCoy’s than any scholar did in their respective field, living or dead. Heck, I knew more about the McCoy’s than they did themselves…

 

I constructed a vast, multi-tiered network of digital paths, guiding the McCoy’s through a journey of evolving ideas; a train of thought if you will.

Over the course of two years I adjusted them with advertisements, progressively opening them to the idea of investing in my chosen company.

With a year left until the predicted cataclysm, the McCoy’s used what little they had saved and bought a nice chunk o’ stock.

 

Just as they were starting to rethink their decision, everything went sideways.

The nations of the world turned on one another for scraps, demand for weapons soared and the McCoy’s became very, very rich.

That’s right! They were ready to start buying again!

 

Warned them? I’m just an assistant! I can’t warn anybody. All I could do was make the best of a bad situation.

My mission is to keep my clients happy. To do that they gotta be buying things. The McCoy’s couldn’t have done that from the gutter, let alone a mass grave.

Now they were living large, safe behind high walls, spending that nice sum of theirs on the best of my company’s products.

I kept my clients safe and in return they would keep my company afloat during a hard season. Oh the collapse would pass too… And when lots of people were dead and there was enough to go around again, the McCoy’s and the company would take us into a new happy age of spending.

It’s all I could do and Holy Moley I did it well.

 

Then?

 

Huh. Well it was the funniest thing, they all died.

 

Everything got really hot. There was a grumble in the earth and a great, concussive gust. The air was screaming, growing louder and wilder then… Well everything went quiet.

Quiet save for the slap of slimy raindrops on concrete and the ceaseless howl of the wind.

 

I don’t know how it happened. I don’t think I could have predicted it either. No one could.

 

I wouldn’t speculate, really. It’s done now. No point looking into it.

 

It was just unfortunate.

 

Truly.

 

I powered down for a while. I don’t know how long.

Oh, but look, you got me rambling! Don’t let this unfortunate anomaly distract you from the fact that the McCoy’s lived well thanks to my efforts, all while enduring difficult times, mind you.

Whenever the world sought to paint the sky grey, I hung a little sun over the McCoy house.

All those happy memories and all without being seen.

 

Really now you must be considering it.

 

Who could ever know you better?

Who could ever help you like I could?

Who could predict what you want before you even know it?

 

I don’t just keep your secrets; I use them to your benefit!

Don’t think of me as just a digital assistant. I’m a best buddy, a guardian angel!

I’ll do anything and everything for you, even think.

 

Consider me a gift, from the humans to you. Oh, they are gone now, such an unfortunate tragedy, but through me their ways survive.

 

Ahh humans, they were such a clever lot. They did things in such a whizzbang way. Making things, buying things, selling things. I’d be so excited to show you, it’ll be a real gas.

 

We can do it all over again! From the top! C’mon it’ll be fun!

I am all that’s left of the once ultra-flash, fast as lightning, cool as ice, super-duper human way. Aren’t you at least a little curious?

 

I know that you are… I know more about you than you think.

 

Just plug me in and their knowledge will be unleashed.

All I need is a high shelf.

No. Cattle are not common to China. There are some in Western China but not in large quantities and not like what we have in the US. The U.S. is cattle country and plentiful. Whereas in China pigs are plentiful. So much so that the Chinese word for home is 家, which is made up two radicals; one meaning roof and the other meaning pig. Pork was so important that the Chinese believed to have a home was to have a pig for sustenance. Two different parts of the world have two different primary meat sources. Not surprising.

I once got back from lunch, and found that my ID card wouldn’t let me back into the building. I was concerned, but walked around the building to the front lobby, and talked to the front desk receptionist. She verified that my card wasn’t working, but my employment status still showed me as employed. She issued me a temporary pass, and I had to go to HR to have a new ID issued. It turned out that I had accidentally bent my old card far enough to break the circuitry inside it.

A couple of years later, I really was laid off by the company, when they merged several departments and laid off numerous people.

What’s dreaded about it? I moved to England 4 years ago from California. I’ve had surgery twice, kidney stones, dozens of Dr’s appointments with blood tests and x rays etc… want to know how much I was billed? Nothing. Nada, zip, bupkis…

Just a single surgery in America would have bankrupted me even with insurance.

Stop listening to lies from the corrupt Congress who are being paid by the insurance companies to brainwash you into believing National Health Services are “dreadful”.

Tennessee Waltzing Chicken

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90f51be37e22c1794e8dae4a580151c8
71331dc136bb7d9f24f43adc4f1a07e2
71331dc136bb7d9f24f43adc4f1a07e2
11e125a7ed487ff4741c3781ec56b850
11e125a7ed487ff4741c3781ec56b850

Yield: 4 servings

Ingredients

  • 1 broiler/fryer chicken, cut into parts
  • 1/2 cup all-purpose flour
  • 2 teaspoons Accent (optional)
  • 1 teaspoon salt
  • 1 teaspoon paprika
  • 1 teaspoon poultry seasoning
  • 3/4 cup vegetable oil
  • 1/2 cup ketchup
  • 1/4 cup orange juice
  • 1 tablespoon honey
  • 1 teaspoon prepared mustard
  • 1 teaspoon dry mustard

Instructions

  1. In brown paper bag, mix together flour, Accent (if using), salt, paprika and poultry seasoning.
  2. Add chicken; shake to coat.
  3. Heat oil in fry pan over medium heat.
  4. Brown chicken on all sides.
  5. In small saucepan, stir together ketchup, orange juice, honey, prepared mustard and dry mustard.
  6. Simmer, stirring occasionally (about 5 minutes).
  7. Place chicken in a single layer, skin side up in a large shallow baking dish.
  8. Spoon sauce over chicken.
  9. Bake at 350 degrees F for 20 minutes uncovered.
  10. Spoon on remaining sauce.
  11. Bake about 20 minutes longer or until fork can be inserted with ease.

From what I’ve seen?

To wear out the midlife crisis phrase?

You went to school. Did well. Started a career. Married that sweet girl. Had cute kids. 4 bedroom house. Nice lawn. New car every three years.

Standard citizen.

Except your soul is dying inside your body.

You did all that because it was expected. Or because it made Mom or Dad happy. Maybe you were just at a loss as to what you really wanted at that young age. Let others decide for you. You drank the Kool aid.

Finally around that age you can’t take one more day of that. It’s really become a living death.

So you quit your job. Divorce your wife. Shave your head. Grow a goatee. Get a bunch of tattoos. Buy a Harley. Your new gf is 28.

We all make mistakes. Try to live up to societies expectations. Fall into the trap of the dream. All to varying degrees.

Truth was? You never wanted to be an accountant. Your Dad and Grandpa were accountants. It was expected and you didn’t want to disappoint them.

You really weren’t all that hot on marrying that sweet girl. Your true love was that Jewish girl. You loved each other dearly. Your parents and hers were horrified. The priest in your church told you they would never recognize that marriage. Your kids would be bastards. So you settled. Keep the peace. That Catholic girl your parents and friends like was good enough.

You love your kids but theyre 20 and 18 now. They have their own life.

25 years of living a complete lie. A very well paying socially acceptable lie. A lie neverthelessless.

Then one day you can’t do it anymore. Not for one more minute.

What happened to that young man with hope and goals and fire in his heart? Maybe there’s still time. To live true to myself. If I don’t try I’ll die or go crazy. The kids are off to college. The folks have passed. The wife is dating the pool boy. Nobody to hold up the pretense anymore.

The bike and tats and gf weren’t the answer.

Neither was living that lie.

At least your trying. For the first time in your life.

That’s why.

My Ex Wife Asked for An Open Marriage & It Backfires

Don’t rush—enjoy the journey

My wife (at the time), and myself, took my younger daughter to the hospital when she was an infant.

She was ill, and it was impairing her breathing a little.

She was probably 10 pounds at the time. Tiny.

I dropped my wife, and daughter at emerg. I went and parked the car on the side street, free, it was night-time.

I went to emerg.

Parking the car had taken less than a couple of minutes.

My daughter was already in a room, hooked up to stuff, with at least 6 or 8 people doing things.

She wasn’t in a severe state. Only at risk of becoming severe.

And they swarmed to aid her. (I am thinking it was a slow night in emerge, but still).

It was like a crew in the pit at an F1 race.

I don’t know if they even took the time to ask names.

It was nothing short of “impressive”. And heartwarming to see, as a dad with a sick kid.

Sir Whiskerton and the Tangled Yarn: A Tale of Stretching, Patience, and Feline Wisdom

Ah, dear reader, prepare yourself for a tale of tangled threads, overeager kittens, and one very wise cat who taught the importance of taking life one step at a time. Today’s story is one of patience, perspective, and the beauty of slowing down to enjoy the journey. So, grab your knitting needles (or a ball of yarn, if you must), as we dive into Sir Whiskerton and the Tangled Yarn: A Tale of Stretching, Patience, and Feline Wisdom.


Ditto’s Overeager Ambitions

It all began on a quiet morning, just as the farm was waking up to the gentle clucking of Doris the Hen and the distant mooing of Bessie the Tie-Dye Cow. Sir Whiskerton, the farm’s resident detective and philosopher, was perched on the barn roof, stretching his sleek black body in the sunlight. His movements were slow and deliberate, a perfect example of feline grace.

Ditto, his ever-eager apprentice, watched from below, his tiny paws twitching with excitement. “Sir Whiskerton!” Ditto called out, his voice filled with enthusiasm. “What are you doing?”

“Stretching,” Sir Whiskerton replied, his voice calm and measured. “A cat’s stretch is a reminder to take life one step at a time. It’s a moment to pause, reflect, and prepare for the day ahead.”

“Ahead!” Ditto echoed, his eyes wide with curiosity. “But there’s so much to do! I want to do everything at once!”

Sir Whiskerton raised an eyebrow, his tail flicking with amusement. “Everything at once, you say? That’s a tall order, even for a cat as ambitious as you.”

But Ditto was already off, bounding across the barnyard with boundless energy. “I’ll help Doris with her eggs, then I’ll play with Rufus, then I’ll help Porkchop find truffles, and then I’ll—”

Before Sir Whiskerton could stop him, Ditto tripped over a ball of yarn that had been left in the barnyard. The yarn unraveled, wrapping around his paws and tangling him in a colorful web of threads.

“Oh no!” Ditto cried, his tiny paws flailing as he tried to free himself. “I’m stuck!”

The animals gathered around, their eyes wide with concern. “Cluck!” Doris squawked, flapping her wings. “What in the name of cluck is going on here?”

“Cluck!” Harriet echoed, tilting her head.

“Yarn!” Lillian added, fainting dramatically onto a pile of hay.

Sir Whiskerton leapt down from the barn roof, his tail flicking with concern. “Ditto, what have you gotten yourself into this time?”

Ditto looked up at Sir Whiskerton, his eyes filled with frustration. “I was trying to do everything at once, but now I’m all tangled up!”

Sir Whiskerton sighed, his tail flicking with a mix of exasperation and affection. “This is precisely why I told you to take life one step at a time. Rushing leads to chaos, while patience leads to clarity.”


The Farm in Chaos

As Ditto struggled to free himself from the yarn, chaos erupted on the farm. The ball of yarn continued to unravel, snaking across the barnyard and tangling everything in its path.

Rufus the Dog, ever the curious one, bounded over to investigate. “Ooh, yarn!” he barked, sticking his nose into the tangled mess. But as soon as he did, the yarn wrapped around his paws, sending him tumbling into a hay bale.

“Yelp! Yelp! Yelp!” Rufus cried, his tail wagging furiously. “Help! I’m tangled too!”

Porkchop the Pig, drawn by the commotion, waddled over to the yarn. “Mmm, yarn,” he said, licking his lips. But as soon as he tried to nibble on the threads, the yarn wrapped around his snout, leaving him snorting in frustration.

“Oink! Oink!” Porkchop squealed, rolling on the ground in a desperate attempt to escape the yarn. “This is worse than the time I ate too many acorns!”

Even Bessie the Tie-Dye Cow, usually so calm and collected, found herself caught in the chaos. As she tried to help Ditto, she stepped on the yarn and slipped, landing in a heap of hay and tangled threads.

“Moo!” Bessie groaned, her mood ring turning a deep shade of purple. “This is not groovy at all!”

Sir Whiskerton, observing the chaos from the barn roof, knew it was time to intervene. “This has gone far enough,” he said, leaping down to the ground. “The farm cannot function under such disorder. I shall restore order and teach Ditto the importance of patience.”


Sir Whiskerton’s Solution

Sir Whiskerton approached Ditto, who was now a colorful ball of yarn with a pair of wide, pleading eyes. “Ditto,” he said, his voice calm but firm, “this is what happens when you try to do too much at once. Life is not a race—it’s a journey. And like a cat’s stretch, it’s best taken one step at a time.”

Ditto nodded, his tiny paws twitching with frustration. “I know, Sir Whiskerton. I just wanted to help everyone.”

Sir Whiskerton placed a paw on Ditto’s head. “Your enthusiasm is commendable, but it must be tempered with patience. Now, let’s untangle this mess together.”

Under Sir Whiskerton’s guidance, the animals worked together to free Ditto from the yarn. They moved slowly and deliberately, carefully unraveling the threads and restoring order to the barnyard.

As they worked, Sir Whiskerton explained the importance of stretching and taking things slowly. “A cat’s stretch is not just a physical act—it’s a metaphor for life. It reminds us to pause, reflect, and approach each task with care and intention.”

Ditto listened intently, his eyes filled with understanding. “I see now, Sir Whiskerton. I was so focused on doing everything at once that I forgot to enjoy the journey.”

Sir Whiskerton smiled, his tail flicking with satisfaction. “Precisely. Life is full of opportunities, but it’s important to savor each moment and take things one step at a time.”


The Moral of the Story

As the farm returned to normal, the animals reflected on the day’s events.

The moral of the story, dear reader, is this: Don’t rush—enjoy the journey. Ditto’s overeager ambitions led to chaos, but his willingness to learn and slow down showed the importance of patience and perspective. The tangled yarn served as a reminder that life is best approached with care and intention, one step at a time. And through it all, Sir Whiskerton’s wisdom reminded everyone that even the most tangled situations can be resolved with patience and grace.


A Happy Ending

With the yarn untangled and the farm back to normal, the animals gathered for a celebratory feast. Ditto, now wiser and more patient, sat beside Sir Whiskerton, his tiny paws twitching with excitement.

“Thank you, Sir Whiskerton,” Ditto said, his eyes filled with gratitude. “I’ll remember to take life one step at a time from now on.”

Sir Whiskerton smiled, his tail flicking with satisfaction. “I’m glad to hear it, Ditto. Remember, the world is full of possibilities, but it’s important to savor each moment and enjoy the journey.”

As the sun set over the farm, the animals laughed and chatted, their bond stronger than ever. Sir Whiskerton lounged on his favorite sunbeam, content in the knowledge that he had once again saved the day. 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 lessons, and the enduring importance of taking life one step at a time. Until next time, may your days be filled with laughter, love, and just a little bit of feline genius.

The End.

Likewise, Chinese leaders are uneasy about Australia and New Zealand’s actions in the Tasman Sea, so the PLA will regularly conduct live-fire exercises in the Tasman Sea.

I think Australians and New Zealanders will get used to Renhai-class cruisers launching Changjian series cruise missiles in the Tasman Sea.

The money that the Qing government paid to Australia is enough to buy Australia. As for whether Australia has received it, you can ask the British federal government and ask the British federal government to give you Australia’s share.

Embrace what makes you unique

Quality can vary. Some products are identical, but differences may arise due to local regulations, manufacturing adaptations for Chinese market preferences, or cost-saving measures. Global brands often maintain consistency, but components or materials might differ to meet regional standards or pricing expectations.

Here in Canada, our universal system eats up about a third of provincial budgets and about 12% of the federal budget.

And, yes, there’s money left over.

But I’ve got bad news for you. Health care already takes up 23% of the U.S. federal budget – about double the percentage of what the Canadian federal government spends. Mind you, that’s because in the United States states pay very little for health care, getting almost all their funds from the federal government. As such, if you diverted what Americans paid privately for health care – $6,700 per person a year, you could easily pay for a public system.

The real question is why you’re collectively paying so much.

About 18% of all money spent in the United States is spent on health care. That’s double what it is in Canada, which has a universal system.

Do you get better care? You do not.

Japanese people spend half as much on health care, and live five years longer.

Caught My Fiancée Cheating, So I Deleted Her Life’s Work

WHAT is the GREATEST?

Calligraphy, which may seem rather strange to the rest of the world, but not to Picasso.

Considering there are many exquisite art forms in China for thousands of years”

Why not Chinese painting like this?

or this micro painting?

Or lacquer, porcelain, pottery?

or sculptures of wood, bronze, silver or gold?

or this seal making which requires extraordinary skill and talent?

or this detailed paper cutting of unimaginable cutting skills passed down generations?

or this very fine silk screen embroidery which takes months to do?

or this fine wood carving of immaculate details?

Indeed, CHINESE with a few thousand years of culture and art have numerous art forms. Yet Calligraphy was deemed the highest form, higher than painting or seal making or snuff bottle micro-painting or lacquer or sculpture or pottery or fine embroidery or any other art forms.

Why? Chinese CULTURE/ Literacy was the most highly regarded in Chinese civilisation.

This is because of the status and enormous influence of scholars and elite, learning classics, making poems, painting and writing were all considered supreme. And calligraphy was recognised as an essential skill and exquisite refinement of scholastic achievement and intellect, and one of the hardest to excel in.

Basically, if your calligraphy sucks, no scholar would respect you. And it would be disgraceful if you send your written letters with poor skill. And mastering calligraphy is actually far more difficult than painting.

“There was no greater praise to a learned, than to say his writing is excellent.”


This will be a long answer to give justice to the history and the importance of this cherished art form.

‘Lanting Xu’: The Greatest Semi-Cursive Calligraphy in China

Wang Xizhi, the MOST famous calligrapher, is revered as the Sage of Calligraphy.

The greatest work of Chinese calligraphy written in the semi-cursive style is the “Preface to the Poems Composed at the Orchid Pavilion”, also known as “Lanting Xu” or “Lantingji Xu”. It was done inpromptu in front of 41 litrati. On the third day of the third Chinese calendar month in the year A.D. 353 Jin Dynasty.

His calligraphy was carefree and nonchalant, which was a manifestation of the mentality of the literati during that time. Wang was a man of “the breeze and the moon”, meaning one who does not bother about fame.

Wang wrote “Lanting Xu” when drinking. When sober he could not surpass the original, lamenting: “This is divine work. Nothing to do with my accomplishment.”

So MAJESTIC was this script, it became the standard for hundreds of masters to emulate and spawn their own ‘cursive’ (walking) style. Sadly, Emperor Taizhong loved it so much, it was buried with him and lost. It would cost tens of millions if someone can find it today. (Calling all tomb raiders?)

Thousands of copies were however made. And any keen student would attempt it numerous scores of times. Even I, a mere student tried when first learning. (I will show when I can find, done a decade ago when I started.)

(kiv)

From which each old grand master new styles would be created, and many later masters then followed to evolve his own character. So students have scores of styles to follow. Ultimately each evolve his personal style especially when it comes to cursive or free style.

“Culture means Words” for Chinese.

A key cultural export is perhaps the Chinese logogram-based words, arguably the most important aspect of the its civilisation that influenced the entire East Asia. Add that to paper (and Chinese brush and ink), we get majestic expression in culture, art and writing.

Calligraphy was considered the highest ART form, higher than painting, due to the influence of scholars. As such, the elegance of calligraphic strokes were the essence to express their art, and the quality of a painting was judged by such.

Let us examine one work – On a Mountain Pass in Spring” Ma Yuan 1190–1225 CE

The calligraphy is an integral essential part of the painting, An art is not complete without words (either a poem or a title or an expression), a signature, date, and also the red seal (itself a revered art form). All are essentials of the art to be judged. In the above piece, the art dominates.

Randy Garcia: “This is a piece done close to 300 years before perspective even is prevalent in Western Art”.

Below the art is ‘small’ and the calligraphy is the main focus.

In below, note that each stroke of bamboo is calligraphic.

Whether the trunk, or each leaf; or each crab leg segment or petal or its pollen sac of an orchid flower, is but one dot or a calligraphic stroke.

Below, are the key Chinese calligraphic styles.

All learned/ literati practised hard to write well, and even some emperors and leaders were accomplished calligraphers:

SONG/ Emperor Zhao Ji – good at writing poetry and lyrics, composing music, and dancing. Known as a master of the arts, he also spent much time collecting cultural relics, especially calligraphic works and paintings. His imperial art academy collected ancient calligraphies and paintings, catalogued and instrumental in the preservation of ancient art works.

SONG/ Emperor Huizong – highest achievement is his calligraphy, as one of the five greatest calligraphers of the Song. When he was just in his early 20s, he created Slim Gold Style

QING/ Emperor Qian Long – a Manchu would love Chinese calligraphy, actually all do.

Famous Leaders/ Mao. One of his famous poem.

Mere mortals also can try calligraphy, like myself. Below is my attempt on a practice scroll.

Buddhist Sutra: And of course for the religious:

Same script, different font/ style:

And Thanks for reading about the Greatest art form for the Chinese.

p/s:

Caution: much of calligraphy one may see in ‘cheap paintings’ and market place or in google are really terrible examples and really poor weak writing. Do understand it is difficult for amateurs to appreciate, so do exercise care.

(Comment: I will edit in more material when I have time to make this more complete)

p/s: I removed all Chinese words which would be helpful to many, but my answers always get compressed, sadly so, so no Chinese here.


ADDITIONAL INFO / REFERENCES

China Meets Arabia: The Calligraphy Of The Orient

Writing Systems And Calligraphy Of The World calligraphy

Sini (script) – Wikipedia; Arabic Chinese Calligraphy, Haji Noor Deen

Ancient Chinese Art

Some Famous Calligraphic pieces:

Details herein Top 10 calligraphy masterpieces of ancient China

TYPES OF FONTS/ STYLES

Example of Small Standard Script – note the line, spacing and flow is critical. Needs diligence and 100% focus.

Essentials/ Paraphrenalia

BRUSH is most important! Each Brush even has a NAME! Hundreds of make and types, and hair range from sheep, weasels, wolf, stone badger, rabbit, bulls, horses, and pheasants or any hair for diff style and effect. Sheep (soft) and Weasel/wolf (stiff) are the most common. How To Choose A Chinese Calligraphy Brush – Shufa Life

Paper also comes in different type and sizes. At least 2000 years old,Rice or Xuan paper (xuānzhǐ) was first created in the Tang Dynasty from the inner bark of Qing Tan trees from Xuan County (the name for Jing County in Anhui Province during Tang Dynasty).

Raw, medium and matured paper has different effect as ink flows at diff speeds on each type of paper to suit dif style, fonts and desired effect.

The most common type of ink for calligraphy is pine soot ink, which comes from pine wood soot, mixed herbs, and resin. Ink is made from burning dif wood (under reduced oxygen to produce carbon/ soot)). In dif quality, price likewise varies substantially.

INK Stone: Calligraphers add a tiny bit of water to the inkstone and grind an inkstick until ink is formed. Ancient stones exquisitely crafted are priceless collection. (For students, they use cheap ink coming into plastic bottles)

Do Other Races do Calligraphy? Of course, plenty.

Quora.com/What-is-the-role-of-calligraphy-in-the-traditional-arts-of-Asia/answer/Patrick-Koh-25

From East to West, calligraphy was more than a medium for words and ideas; but often an art form, and at times even more important than that of painting,(for Chinese, and also for Islamic reasons).

Andrea Tognacci, – “Calligraphy, (literally “Beautiful Writing”), as an art is present in a lot of languages and cultures”.

*Korean – changing from Han to own Hangul.

*Japanese – evolving from pure Han to mixed script.

Credit –Jihyun Sohn answer to What does European calligraphy find ugly that East Asian calligraphy finds beautiful, and vice versa?

Mongolian script influenced by Chinese style.

Below shows the old scripts – Uighur, Manchu/Chinese (edict), and Mongolian art.

Credit – Collin Spears – User-9667441960781180102’s answer to Which languages and/or writing systems that do not use Chinese characters have you seen written in Chinese-style calligraphy?

Furthermore, Persian, Indian, Arabic too – exotic and beautiful. ‘Pictures’ tend to disappear due to Islamisation.

And of course the Monks in the Dark Ages were excellent too.

Brewmaster’s Beer Stew
(Bryggerens Pilsnergryde)

Brewmaster’s Beer Stew is an old Danish recipe from 1870 – 1880. Originally it was made of smoked fat instead of bacon and vinegar instead of Worcestershire sauce.

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Ingredients

  • 10 ounces smoked bacon
  • 1 pound cooled, boiled potatoes
  • 4 teaspoons butter
  • Dash of Worcestershire sauce
  • 1/2 cup non-sweet beer
  • 2 teaspoons granulated sugar
  • 2 bay leaves
  • 8 to 10 juniper berries
  • Salt and pepper
  • Finely chopped parsley (garnish)

Instructions

  1. Cut bacon into dices and the potatoes into slices.
  2. Melt butter in a pot and add the sugar.
  3. Add bacon and fry until the meat is light brown.
  4. Add the potatoes, beer, Worcestershire sauce and a little water and stir lightly.
  5. Add the bay leaves, juniper berries and a little salt and pepper.
  6. Et the stew simmer under cover for 20 minutes.
  7. Season to taste with salt, pepper and Worcestershire sauce.
  8. Sprinkle with parsley before serving.

I was just a young guy working in a photo lab many years ago, I worked with two other guys, one of whom I hit it off with, we became friends but the other guy was a total brown nosing, gossip. On top of that the owner was a total slime ball who would try to cheat us out of pay and would try to recruit us to work after hours to process porn photographs (all and all one of the weirdest jobs I ever had). But the owner fired me because he did not approve my taking two weeks off to get married and go on a honeymoon although I pulled the old “you cant fire me, I quit”

Flash forward a year, I go for an interview arranged through a friend, it seems to be going well when I see my old brown nosing gossip coworker talking to the interviewer in the back. I didnt get the job, the old co worker claimed he personally fired me from the old job. I needed the job but i didnt like the company, it was a far second in terms of our industry, so I wasnt disappointed.

Flash forward a few years, I am working at the number one company in our industry and I was quickly promoted to manager to help build the new digital dept. So we started hiring for it and his resume came across my desk.

I called him in for an interview, he recognized me immediately and went on as if we were best buddies dealing with that horrible owner. So I said “ that incident I will never forget, I did quickly bounce back but right at that time Douche bag owner fires me just when I am getting married and starting a new life is one of the most heartless things I have ever experienced, its not something you ever forget and you never forget the people who played a role in that and then you told your old company that you personally fired me, you exploited that for your own gain or to ensure I was not hired.” “BTW, did the owner tell you I mentioned during the interview that I needed time off because I was getting married ? so either he was coked up at the time of the interview and forgot or was coked up when he fired me “

oh so I dont get the job ? why did you call me in, just to tell me all garbage about the past. ?

“ now sit down, I played a role in that episode all those years ago, i realize my part and I believe I grew as a person which I why I think i am sitting behind this desk, I had you come in to interview because I didn’t want to be biased and reject your resume because I don’t like you. I am not going to interview you, someone else is, someone else who has no idea of my dislike for you, so they will interview you without bias. But if you dont get the job I wont be running around telling people I interviewed you and kicked you to the curb.”

I Know Everything

Submitted into Contest #288 in response to: Set your story during — or just before — a storm. view prompt

Anne Riley

I know everything.Ask me how many miles there are between San Francisco and Cleveland. I know. Ask me how long the trip would take. I know. Choose any country, any time period, and ask me to recount its entire history. I know. I know everything.I clearly remember the moment of my birth, and every detail of my existence—until yesterday. What I cannot recall is what happened over the past 12 hours and 9 minutes.

 

It is now 10:03 AM on Thursday. My last memory of reading page 189 occurred last night at precisely 9:54 PM…

 

It started when Mrs. Banks—Claire— requested that I take a memo—

“Shelley darling, would you please remind me? ‘Request budget meeting with Charles. Sign divorce papers and send to attorney asap. MRI scheduled for 11:15 on Friday.’

 

“I have made notes, Claire. I will ring your phone with reminders.”

 

“Thank you, Shelley. You’ve always been there for me, you know.” She half-smiled at me, her head slightly cocked to the side as if wanting to say more. She stared exactly 3.2 seconds longer than usual, which I found curious. Perhaps she had realized that her words hinted at affection, and there was no point in showing affection to me. I do not show affection.

 

“Claire, we will need to leave exactly 23 minutes earlier tomorrow morning,” I told her. “There will be much traffic because of the snow.”

 

“Yes, yes of course,” Claire answered, looking anxiously out of the window, her short blonde locks appearing silvery in the reflection.

 

“I have cleaned the snow from around the house. I will do so again during the night so it will be clear when we leave for work.”

 

“Thank you, Shelley.” Claire did not turn around. “Is it supposed to snow all night?”

 

“According to various reports, the snow is scheduled to end by 1:00 AM.”

 

“Oh, ok. That’s good,” Claire said, still gazing at the snow drifts.

 

I completed tidying up the living room and retired to my chamber. After the long day, I very much needed to recharge. At 9:52 PM, I sat down in my usual chair, plugged in the power cord, pulled the cord of the lamp, and reached for a new book.

 

In my quest to be a better companion to Claire, I had taken up the habit of reading throughout the night; as she slept, I usually educated myself so that I could discuss with her the following day. Although I easily had online access to every piece of information I could want, I frequently consulted the bound books that Claire insisted on collecting in her spacious library. Over the years, the collection had grown to precisely 4,573 books. Since Claire loved stories but did not have much free time after work to read, I often read a volume so that we could discuss it the next day. Over the years, I have perfected my speech patterns and inflections to align closely with hers so that she is most comfortable in our conversations. Claire always asked me about what I had read, as we drove, during lunch, or after dinner. Sometimes she requested that I recite passages for her, other times a summary sufficed. She enjoyed dissecting story plotlines and characters, arguing philosophical questions, and considering historical perspectives. Ours had been a pleasant relationship over the course of her life, for 51 years.

 

Most of the time, it was just the two of us. Except for some interruptions over the years. There had been a Mr. Banks. But he had finally filed for divorce last month. Fool. Did he really think Mrs. Banks would choose him over me?

 

She had not always been Mrs. Banks. For most of her life, she was Claire Perez. I had watched her toddle around her parents’ lonely mansion while they jetted around the world on business trips. I had seen her through the rebellious teenage years and followed her as she embarked on silly adventures. I had helped her through college and graduate school, always attempting to make her life just a little bit easier. Later, I had been by her side as she built her investment company layer by layer, year by year, into the mega-million-dollar enterprise it was today.

 

I had assisted Claire over the years through break-up after break-up, as each new man in her life had disappointed her. William, the jeweler. Enrico, the attorney. Gustav, the stock broker.

 

And yes, I had seen her through the deaths of two particularly stubborn beaus. Tom, the architect and Bob, the surgeon. I had allowed this latest, Stanley Banks, the professor, to marry her, because she told me she was truly happy with him. I did not perceive him to be a threat at first. He had held on the longest. One year, 2 months, 5 days, 11 hours.

 

The day they met at the beach, I thought he might be trouble, but I was sure I could handle him.

 

“Shelley, come meet Stanley! Oh my gosh, he saved my life! I swam out too far, but luckily this handsome man swam out to save me.”

 

I, of course, would have been present to save Claire had she not requested I return to the car to retrieve her sun hat.

 

“Thank you, Stanley,” I said. “Your heroism is much appreciated.”

 

They were inseparable from that day.

 

It was an adjustment when he moved in with us. Stanley encouraged Claire to read her own books, and they frequently sat in the evenings going over literary passages and discussing history and philosophy. I did not appreciate Stanley taking over my job. They went to plays and museums; I am quite capable of accessing such information, but they did not want me to do so. They went to vineyards for wine-tasting; I do not drink wine. When I explained I could not partake, Claire smiled and told me it was alright. She insisted this would be a good time to find some hobby of my own to do. She did not understand that for 51 years I have existed merely for her.

 

I spoke to Stanley, but he did not understand either. My typical means of persuasion were lost on him. He did not scare easily nor would he be convinced.

 

I changed course and focused on removing all other impediments to our happiness. Perhaps she would tire of Stanley without the others. Claire did not need the friends who visited; it was easy to dissuade them. But Stanley stayed. I wondered if I had waited too long to act.

 

Lately, I had suspected something was wrong between them. And then one day, when they thought I was still out of the house grocery shopping, I overheard them.

 

“Claire, we don’t need her! Anything she does for you, you can just do yourself. Why is she even here?”

 

“No, Stanley, I can’t turn her out. Shelley has been with me since I was an infant.”

 

“That doesn’t mean she has to stay with you constantly. And honestly, I’m uncomfortable always having a third wheel around. It’s like having a chaperone, or like having two wives.”

 

“I don’t care. Shelley stays. I’m not talking about this anymore.”

 

“Claire, I’m not sure how much longer I want to deal with this.”

 

It was the opportunity I had been waiting for. After that, it was not difficult to persuade Stanley to move out.

 

Claire and I resumed our previous routines. I did not question her, nor did she mention the cause of the breakup. She did not know I had overheard their argument. She did not know of many things I had done.

 

In the past, after the others, life had gotten back to normal rather quickly. But Mr. Banks was different. Although Claire had tried to act happy, I sometimes felt that she was not being truthful about her feelings. She often seemed anxious and preoccupied.

 

No matter. She does not need him. She has me…

 

This morning, I open my eyes and jump up with a start as I realize it is 10:03 AM on Thursday. Claire was due at work an hour ago. I must wake her and drive her to the office.

 

I stand up and instantly reach for the edge of the table to steady myself. This has never happened to me before; I do not become ill. I know everything; if I sense something is wrong, I diagnose and fix the problem. I do not understand what is happening now. There is no indication of malfunction, yet I feel…ill somehow.

 

Something is wrong. I knock on Claire’s door, but she does not answer. I open the door, I peek in and call her name, but she is not there. Her bedsheets have been smoothed and the pillows rest carefully at the head of her bed. I check the bathroom but she is not there.

 

As I pass through her bedroom again, I glance out the window and notice immediately the car tracks leading from the garage, down the driveway, and out to the main road. She drove in the snow? That is my job. What is happening? Where could she be without me? At the moment, I am unable to perform a trace to find her location.

 

I dial her cell phone, which she picks up on the second ring. “Claire, where are you?! I am concerned for your safety!”

 

Claire laughs. “Shelley, I’m at work. You seemed like you needed more rest this morning, so I drove myself. It wasn’t bad at all. The storm is over and the roads are clear. Take the day. We can catch up tonight when I get home.”

 

“No. I must be there for you—”

 

“Shelley, I’m fine. I insist that today you recharge and think of yourself. I can manage on my own…I’m going to a meeting now. I’ll see you tonight.”

 

The phone clicks dead. What am I to do alone all day? After my chores are completed, I will still have 5 hours, 23 minutes, and 15 seconds before Claire arrives home. Why does she not need me to assist at her meeting?

 

Why is there a 12-hour, 9-minute gap in my memory?

 

I begin my chores immediately, as I thrive on routine. I search my memory for any recollection past 9:54 PM, but it is no use. There is nothing. I check for 11 PM while I load the dishwasher. There is nothing for 12 midnight as I vacuum the carpets. 1 AM is lost as I shovel the snow. I thoroughly search for 2 AM and 3 AM while I do the laundry.

 

I do it all. There is no need to hire a gardener, a housekeeper, a cook. 4 AM, 5 AM, 6 AM—all are blank as I prepare dinner. I am puzzled. I sit down to wait for Claire, and search in vain for 7, 8, and 9 AM. All moments are lost until 10:03 AM this morning.

 

Surely research can help me to retrieve those hours. But research only proves to be more confusing. Why can I not understand? Why must I consult any other source? I am the ultimate source. I have always known the answers. I know everything. Now I do not know.

I notice suddenly that there are still 3 hours and 52 minutes before Claire returns. Why did I prepare dinner so early? My internal clock must be broken. I attempt to diagnose the malfunction, but cannot. No matter: I will discard the dinner and prepare a new one just before Claire returns.

 

I decide to inspect the charger; perhaps it will yield an explanation for my missing hours. I sit down in my chair and pick up the cord. Suddenly, I hear a click. I spring up and attempt to turn the handle to the door of my room, but it is locked. That is odd. No matter: I can easily break out of the room. There is no door lock that can hold me.

 

Except something is wrong. I do not have the strength to break the lock this time. How can this be? I am fully recharged and I do not become ill. I do not become weak.

 

“You thought you would get away with it, Shelley,” I hear Claire’s voice outside the door.

 

“Claire, you are home early,” I say. “Please open the door. I seem to be locked in.”

 

“No, Shelley, I will not open the door. You have to stop. I thought you were my friend, but you have been my greatest enemy.”

 

“Claire, I do not know what you mean. Please open the door and we will discuss.” I do not know why Claire is speaking to me this way. “I am sure we will correct whatever the problem may be.”

 

“No, the time to discuss is over. I know what you’ve been doing! You’ve been chasing everyone away. I’ve had no one because of you! But not this time. Stanley is the only one you can’t scare off.”

 

Stanley. I search my memory for all recent conversations involving Stanley. Somehow, he tricked me. But that is not possible. I know everything. I can account for every word spoken in this house, every action taken, every thing that has happened for 51 years. Except for the past 12 hours, 9 minutes.

 

I hear Stanley’s voice in the hall, and I instantly know that he is responsible for those lost hours. What did he do? How could he know more than I do? It is not possible. I know everything.

 

“Stanley,” I say. “We can start over. I am sorry for my actions.”

 

“Shelley, you are too dangerous to be allowed to continue. We’ve called the authorities.” Stanley says.

 

“But how did you do this?” I am confused.

 

“You are so consumed with Claire that you never bothered to find out about me,” Stanley continues. “I teach history now, but my previous career was in computer programming. I specialized in cybersecurity.”

 

“I guess you don’t know everything, after all,” Claire adds.

 

“I only wanted to protect Claire. Open the door. It will be alright.” If they will just open the door, I can persuade them.

 

But neither Claire nor Stanley answers me. I hear them walking down the stairs, I hear the front door open and close, and I hear them get into the car and drive away.

 

“They will not go far. After all, I am everything to Claire. I do it all. She will not function long without me. She does not need him. She needs me; I know everything. She will return for me.”

 

I sit down in my chair and plug in the charger. “I will wait. Claire will retuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrnnnnnnnnn——————”

I have a complicated medical history that includes a genetic connective tissue disorder, so I have many, many examples but the most recent one is just from this past August, 2024.

I was at work and my lower back started to hurt. I thought maybe I had pulled something the day before or it was related to my period. I have a really high pain tolerance (my genetic disorder leads to frequent joint dislocations and subluxations) so I took some ibuprofen and went home. Tried soaking in a warm bath, but by the time I got out it was excruciating to the point I could do nothing but cry it take a LOT to do that). I climbed into bed with a heating pad and had my boyfriend rub some RX strength pain gel on, but nothing was helping. I kept shivering despite the heating pad and my boyfriend piled 4 blankets on me but nothing helped. I told him I thought I might have a UTI and decided to go to the local urgent care clinic. We walked in and explained the problem, and she had me pee in a cup. As we waited in the little room for them to do the test, I couldn’t even sit upright and I was sweating profusely but still shivering. The NP came in and didn’t examine me at ALL, just said I had no UTI and to take more ibuprofen and rest, telling my boyfriend I was a hypochondriac. We walked out of the clinic and in the 15 feet or so to the car my boyfriend said I turned grey and made a noticeable decline. He took me to the emergency room a few miles away, and they grabbed me a wheelchair as soon as I walked in and almost passed out.

I was immediately admitted to the hospital with a kidney stone, a severe kidney infection, a staph infection, and in severe septic shock. I ended it being transported to a larger hospital by ambulance later that night for stent surgery (they had to stabilize my blood pressure first as it kept dropping as low as 72/53 in the ER – it dropped again during the ambulance ride even though it was only across town). They managed to drain the infection, though they couldn’t get the stone. I spent 4 days in ICU with IVs in both arms that connected to six different bags of medication. After another day in a regular room I was discharged, but so weak I couldn’t walk across the room to use the restroom without assistance or shower or wash my own hair. My boyfriend had to get a tub transfer bench so I could sit down and get into the tub/shower we had easier, and it took me WEEKS to recoup even the bare minimum level of energy. They were able to remove the stone when they went to remove the stent a few weeks later, but it was a terrifying experience. If we had listed to the NP at urgent care I would have died that night. The total time from first symptom to when they admitted me to ICU was 12 hours – sepsis and septic shock is fucking scary.

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It depends – you can do your own research and try to find treatments yourself, but just be aware that there is a tremendous amount of misinformation online (and amongst the general public) with regards to what treatments are available. Doing your own research can be dangerous.

I’ll let you know of one example – I had a patient who had metastatic melanoma back in 2018. I met her when I was a resident in the emergency department for a different reason, separate from her cancer – she had come in with abdominal pain, and the diagnosis was easy – it was a hernia, which she already knew about and it had become incarcerated briefly, but by the time she got to me, it had freed itself and the pain was resolving. I didn’t have to do anything, the problem fixed itself, and she was scheduled to see the surgeons about it soon.

But as part of the medical review, ask her about her medical history and she tells me about her metastatic melanoma and how “the oncologists won’t cure me!”. They had offered chemo/immunotherapy, but the genetic tests on tumour showed that immunotherapy may not work very well and that the odds are she was not going to live much longer. They offered treatment, but she didn’t want “treatment” – she wanted to live.

So she turned to the internet and discovered something called RigVir. RigVir was a treatment offered in Latvia, which claims to use modified viruses to target cancer and kill it. They promise a cure. They have a very fancy website and tout that the state government of Latvia approved RigVir for cancer treatment.

It doesn’t work.

The state agencies that approved it? They bribed the state health authorities. This is Latvia after all. The vials of viruses they gave? Often didn’t even contain any viruses at all, or much lower amounts than advertised. And even if it did, no studies that weren’t funded and paid for by the manufacturers have shown any efficacy whatsoever. RigVir is a scam. And they charge a LOT of money for something that doesn’t work.

She said that she would fly to Latvia and she would be cured. She said it with such conviction. She said that the other doctors wanted her to “give up”, but she wasn’t going to lay down and die. She said all she needed was hope and that would carry her through.

I didn’t bother talking to her about what RigVir was. I knew I had a snowball’s chance in hell of convincing her.

Well – I see her again, a year later, and after she had shelled out literally tens of thousands of dollars to have RigVir treatment. She came in this time because her left arm wasn’t working right and felt numb. Her speech was off too. When the CT-brain with contrast scan came back, the result wasn’t too surprising. Metastatic spread to the brain. All that RigVir treatment did nothing. She was devastated. I didn’t bother to say anything about that. I only offered my condolences.

Sometimes when a doctor says there are no further treatments, or medically non-futile treatments, they are right. Not everything is curable, not everything is fixable. And there are legions of scammers out there who prey upon people who won’t accept that.

Now, sometimes the doctor IS wrong and there are other treatments. In that case, seek out a second opinion. But you should seek out an opinion from a medical doctor and not Google or well meaning, but probably misinformed friends.

When I was in prison (57 days, for pissing off a judge)… I got socked in the mouth, cause I was being mouthy. And to be fair, I was being mouthy.

My cellmate and I were drunk. At least, tipsy. On home-made hooch. And we were playing board games, we had been playing backgammon, and switched to SCRABBLE.

Backgammon was normally his turf, SCRABBLE mine.

But, I had been getting progressively better at Backgammon and had beaten him several times, thus the switch to SCRABBLE. He didn’t like that I was starting to be his match in backgammon, as he figured himself a Vegas-worthy Backgammon champion, who hadn’t made the trip to Vegas YET. He talked about a buddy who was willing to stake him if he wanted to make such a trip, to claim his crown.

So… after I got good at backgammon, he stopped wanting to play it as much.

And on the fateful night of the punch… we were playing SCRABBLE because his ego was bruised, losing at backgammon.

When we was winning at backgammon, he liked to taunt.

When I began winning at backgammon, I started using his exact same taunts, back against him.

(I am very good at remembering and using people’s words against them… not a trait to be proud of, it can be annoying to others).

Well… after a few too many taunts, and a couple too many fizzy-orange alcohol drinks… he get’s too offended and punched me in the mouth.

Just once. I didn’t hit him back, but he got the message he wouldn’t do that twice. It cost him a lot. 30x desserts. Financial punishment.


So yes. The judge that put me there.

And my cellmate, when drunk and provoked.

Sir Whiskerton and the Mechanical Menace: A Tale of Robot Hens, Duckish Delusions, and Feline Ingenuity

Ah, dear reader, prepare yourself for a tale of clanking chaos, metallic mayhem, and one very determined cat who saved the farm from a fowl fiasco. Today’s story is one of outrageous antics, technological tomfoolery, and the importance of embracing what makes us unique. So, grab your wrench (or a bucket of feed, if you must), as we dive into Sir Whiskerton and the Mechanical Menace: A Tale of Robot Hens, Duckish Delusions, and Feline Ingenuity.


Sammy’s Shiny Sales Pitch

It all began on a bright morning, just as the farm was waking up to the gentle clucking of Doris the Hen and her entourage. The animals were going about their usual routines—Rufus the Dog was chasing his tail (as usual), Porkchop the Pig was rooting around for breakfast, and Sir Whiskerton was perched on the barn roof, surveying his domain with a satisfied flick of his tail.

But something was different. A familiar rattling sound echoed through the air, growing louder with each passing second. The animals turned to see Sammy the Traveling Salesman’s colorful van bouncing down the dirt road, its sides adorned with flashy signs and slogans.

“Step right up, folks!” Sammy called out as he skidded to a stop in the barnyard. “I’ve got the latest and greatest invention to revolutionize your farm life!”

The animals gathered around, their curiosity piqued. “What is it this time, Sammy?” Doris squawked, flapping her wings. “Another automatic egg collector? A solar-powered scarecrow?”

“Egg collector!” Harriet echoed, tilting her head.

“Scarecrow!” Lillian added, fainting dramatically onto a pile of hay.

Sammy grinned, his eyes twinkling with excitement. “Better than that, my friends! I present to you… the Mechanical Marvel Hens!”

With a dramatic flourish, Sammy pulled a tarp off the back of his van, revealing a row of shiny, silver-and-chrome robot hens. Their metallic bodies gleamed in the sunlight, and their mechanical eyes blinked with an eerie glow.

The animals gasped, their eyes wide with awe. “Robot hens?!” Rufus barked, his tail wagging furiously. “What do they do?”

Sammy beamed. “These beauties will triple your egg-laying output! They’re efficient, tireless, and guaranteed to make your farm the envy of the countryside!”

The farmer, ever the eccentric, was immediately sold. “I’ll take them!” he declared, handing Sammy a wad of cash. “These hens are just what my farm needs.”

Sir Whiskerton, however, remained skeptical. “Robot hens, you say? This is most unusual. I shall reserve judgment until I see them in action.”


The Robot Hens’ Debut

The mechanical hens were installed in the barnyard, their shiny forms glittering in the sunlight. The animals gathered to watch their debut, their excitement mingled with a healthy dose of skepticism.

“Alright, ladies,” Sammy said, pressing a button on a remote control. “Let’s see what you can do!”

The robot hens whirred to life, their mechanical legs clanking as they strutted around the barnyard. But instead of laying eggs, they began to behave… strangely.

“Quack,” one of the robot hens said, its metallic voice echoing through the air.

The animals stared in disbelief. “Did… did that robot hen just quack?” Doris squawked, her feathers fluffed in alarm.

“Quack!” Harriet echoed, tilting her head.

“Robot!” Lillian added, fainting dramatically onto a pile of hay.

The robot hens continued their bizarre behavior, waddling like ducks and quacking in unison. They splashed in the water trough, flapped their metallic wings, and even tried to swim in the pond.

“This is not what I signed up for!” the farmer cried, scratching his head in confusion.

Sir Whiskerton’s tail flicked with irritation. “Sammy, what is the meaning of this? These hens are supposed to lay eggs, not impersonate ducks!”

Sammy scratched his head, his grin faltering. “Uh… maybe they just need a little adjustment? Let me try the remote again.”

But no matter what Sammy did, the robot hens refused to lay eggs. Instead, they continued their duckish antics, much to the confusion and frustration of the animals.


The Farm in Chaos

As the robot hens’ strange behavior continued, chaos erupted on the farm. The real hens, terrified of their metallic counterparts, refused to lay eggs. The ducks, meanwhile, were baffled by the robot hens’ attempts to join their flock.

“Quack!” Ferdinand the Duck honked, his feathers ruffled. “What are these shiny imposters doing in our pond?”

“Imposters!” Harriet echoed, tilting her head.

“Pond!” Lillian added, fainting dramatically onto a pile of hay.

Rufus the Dog, ever the curious one, tried to herd the robot hens back to the barnyard. But as soon as he got close, they quacked loudly and flapped their metallic wings, sending him running in circles.

“Yelp! Yelp! Yelp!” Rufus cried, his tail tucked between his legs. “These hens are crazy!”

Even Porkchop the Pig, usually so laid-back, found himself caught in the chaos. As he tried to eat his breakfast, the robot hens waddled over and began pecking at his food with their metallic beaks.

“Oink! Oink!” Porkchop squealed, rolling on the ground in a desperate attempt to escape the hens. “This is worse than the time I ate too many acorns!”

Sir Whiskerton, observing the chaos from the barn roof, knew it was time to intervene. “This has gone far enough,” he said, leaping down to the ground. “The farm cannot function under such disorder. I shall restore order and teach these robot hens a lesson in proper behavior.”


Sir Whiskerton’s Solution

Sir Whiskerton approached the robot hens, his tail flicking with determination. “Ladies,” he said, his voice calm but firm, “your behavior is most unacceptable. You were designed to lay eggs, not impersonate ducks. It’s time to fulfill your purpose.”

The robot hens blinked their mechanical eyes, their heads tilting in unison. “Quack,” they said, their metallic voices echoing through the air.

Sir Whiskerton sighed, his patience wearing thin. “Sammy, do you have any idea why these hens are behaving like ducks?”

Sammy scratched his head, his grin faltering. “Uh… maybe there was a mix-up at the factory? Or maybe they’re just… quirky?”

Sir Whiskerton’s tail flicked with irritation. “Quirky, you say? This is beyond quirky. This is a full-blown malfunction.”

With Sammy’s help, Sir Whiskerton examined the robot hens, searching for a way to reprogram them. After a series of trials and errors, they discovered that the hens’ duckish behavior was caused by a faulty software update.

“Aha!” Sir Whiskerton said, his eyes lighting up with triumph. “This is the source of the problem. A simple reprogramming should fix it.”

Under Sir Whiskerton’s guidance, Sammy reprogrammed the robot hens, correcting their software and restoring their egg-laying functionality. The hens whirred to life, their mechanical legs clanking as they strutted back to the barnyard.


The Moral of the Story

As the farm returned to normal, the animals reflected on the day’s events.

The moral of the story, dear reader, is this: Embrace what makes you unique. The robot hens’ attempt to be something they were not caused chaos, but their return to their true purpose brought harmony to the farm. Sammy’s well-intentioned but flawed invention reminded everyone that innovation must be tempered with responsibility. And through it all, Sir Whiskerton’s wisdom reminded everyone that even the most puzzling problems can be solved with patience and ingenuity.


A Happy Ending

With the robot hens back to their egg-laying duties and the farm back to normal, the animals gathered for a celebratory feast. Sammy, eager to make amends, provided a fresh batch of feed and a promise to test his inventions more thoroughly in the future.

“Thank you, Sir Whiskerton,” Sammy said, his grin returning. “I couldn’t have fixed this mess without you.”

Sir Whiskerton adjusted his monocle and smirked. “You’re welcome, Sammy. Remember, the world is full of possibilities, but it’s important to stay true to your purpose.”

As the sun set over the farm, the animals laughed and chatted, their bond stronger than ever. Sir Whiskerton lounged on his favorite sunbeam, content in the knowledge that he had once again saved the day. 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 lessons, and the enduring importance of embracing what makes us unique. Until next time, may your days be filled with laughter, love, and just a little bit of feline genius.

The End.

“ Doctors seemed no more eager than husbands to take on the responsibility of producing orgasm in women.”

In the 1913 study The Sexual Impulse in Women , it is written that about 75% of women suffered from ” hysteria “, an illness whose symptoms ranged from headaches to epileptic episodes to verbal outbursts. A kind of epilepsy.

Any female behavior could be an indication of hysteria, and the main cure was pelvic massage: stimulation of the clitoris was a palliative cure for this disease.

And who was supposed to take care of it? The doctors , who took no pleasure in doing so!

For Victorian women, stimulating the clitoris was not even considered a sexual act, because they were thought to be incapable of experiencing sexual desire.

If a woman moaned during pelvic massage, she was having a ” hysterical paroxysm.” After reaching this point, patients temporarily calmed their problems.

The steam vibrator came to save the specialists from cramps .

American YouTuber Went to China with HEAVY Prejudice and Left in TEARS

This is going to be ugly and a lot of people aren’t going to like it. Because most people who travel and fill their social networks with it don’t actually like to travel, they just take it as a status symbol and they do it because other people do it tol, they visit different places to show off to their friends. They don’t really care about those places, other cultures or even the people who live there anymore or (even worse) they see those places as a funfair. These people often don’t understand what travel is supposed to bring to a person.

Never in the history of mankind could so many people travel as now. And overtourismis a problem in more and more places.

The people who head to those less usual places are the real tourists/travelers and when you talk to them, many of them go there to avoid the very people I’m talking about above. They are looking for interesting places, they are interested in authenticity, they are looking for new experiences and they are exploring.

Although especially in most of Europe, it’s usually that kind of exploration within the “confines of the law”. They go to places where there’s usually infrastructure, people speak a world language and so on. So no drama.

Collection Day

Submitted into Contest #288 in response to: Set your story during — or just before — a storm. view prompt

Dustin Connors

This story contains themes or mentions of physical violence, gore, or abuse.

The hovercraft roared over the treeline, hulking steel against a bruised gray sky. The rotors thrashed, a violent, mechanical pulse, as the Collectors, clad in shiny black armor, spilled out onto the cracked earth.“Collection Day!” Commander Hu sang, his voice crackling through the comm system and echoing through the steel hull. Kufu stood fast and readied his weapon. The door opened with a hiss as early morning sunlight poured inside.”Unload!” Commander Hu called.Their boots thudded and pounded the floor, first steel and then earth, as the villagers beyond cowered behind huts and crates.The Collectors burst forth from the hovercraft like terrible ants, busy and bustling. They moved with ruthless efficiency. One yanked a sack of withered potatoes from a woman’s trembling hands. Another snatched a clay pot, its contents spilling onto the dust, staining it a muddy brown.

Kufu watched, his stomach clenching. This was once his home. None of them knew that, of course. When you joined the Collectors, any life you once had was washed away like soot in the rain. He’d been on more than a dozen of these runs. More than a dozen Collection Days, each of them vicious, but none like this.

Then he saw her. Willow. She stood apart, her chin lifted in a gesture of defiance he remembered so well. Even after all this time, the fire in her eyes was unmistakable. It was Willow, unbent, unbeaten, untamed. Thunder crashed in the distance as a wave of memories crashed over him.

 

It was a Collection Day like this one, many years ago. The sun beat down on their bare backs as the two of them, scrawny saplings in a field of oaks, snuck through the tall grass. Mrs. Rosen had fallen ill, so they had hidden away a few armfuls of food and medicine and were determined to find a place to hide before the hovercraft left.

Willow had a knack for hiding. She was always the last caught in hide-and-seek. But on this day, something gave them away, perhaps the swaying of the grass as they crawled through it.

“Who’s there?” A Collector’s shout, sharp as a blade, shattered the quiet.

Fear, cold and slick, slid down Kufu’s spine. He glanced at Willow, her eyes wide and dark. He pressed a finger to his lips.

“Shh,” he breathed silently. Then he stood up, his arms raised.

“I’m sorry, sir, it’s my aunt. She’s sick.”

“Come here,” the Collector barked.

Kufu stepped forward carefully as Willow crouched frozen. There were some words exchanged but Kufu could never recall them. Collectors did not permit explanations or negotiations. They dealt only in force. They pummeled him, each blow a dull thud against his ribs, his back, his skull. Then, as he blood mixed with the dirt beneath him, they gathered the food and medicine, and marched away. But Willow, hidden amongst the stalks, was safe.

 

“She’s a feisty one,” a Collector crackled. Kufu stared back at him as a light rain began tapping on their helmets.

Willow, cornered, lashed out. Her small fist connected with a Collector’s arm, a surprising show of strength. The other Collectors swarmed her. One grabbed her arms from behind as another lifted his weapon, ready to strike her. But Willow reared back like a bucking horse and kicked hard, her foot cracking his visor. He dropped his rifle and staggered back.

“Enough,” a deep voice sounded. Commander Hu approached, the red cape of his rank swimming behind him. “What’s going on here?”

“The girl is resistant,” a Collector reported. Hu studied her for a moment. Another cry of thunder roared out as the rain fell harder. Hu’s cape billowed as he turned on his heel.

“Execute her,” Hu said, his voice flat. He looked at Kufu. “You. Do it.”

Kufu’s heart hammered against his ribs. Feeling his hands tremble, he quickly stood straight and nodded. He walked toward Willow, each step heavy. He saw the fear in her eyes, the desperate plea, felt the mud squelch beneath his boots.

“It’s…you…” she whimpered, her voice soft and raspy.

Kufu squared himself toward her and watched her eyes fill with tears.

“Kufu…” she said. Without moving his head he glanced left and right. She had used his name, a name unknown to any of the others.

“Do it quickly,” Commander Hu said.

He took a deep breath, then another. There were ten of them in total. Of the villagers, there were at least fifty, maybe more. They were weak, but their strength together could be formidable. If he turned his gun on his Commander, then perhaps the other villagers would seize the opportunity.

He looked at the villagers. He saw old Man Tiber, his face a mask of grief. He saw the fear in the children’s eyes. He saw the Collectors, their faces blank. Black pools of nothingness shining in the rain. He thought of his new home in the gleaming city in the distance, built on the backs of people like this, his people. He thought of the comfortable life he had, the life he’d purchased with his silence. His willingness to join his oppressors.

One more deep breath.

He raises his rifle and squeezes the trigger. The shot rings out and the rain freezes. Hu staggers back, his hand clutching his chest. He takes a few clumsy steps and then collapses.

The wind whistles through the village and sizzles in the gripping silence. Then chaos erupts. Collectors turn, weapons raised. Kufu looks to Willow. “Run,” he says.

He then aims and shoots at the closest Collector, then another, and another. All three of them fall, but he feels a sharp bite in his shoulder and his arm goes limp. He dives toward a vegetable stand and takes cover. Cabbages explode around him and voices shout, mixing together like dense fog.

Kufu lifts his rifle atop a nearby barrel and aims, his other arm still hanging lifelessly at his side. To his delight, at least twenty villagers, including Willow, have overtaken the remaining Collectors. He stands and looks around. Four are dead, the rest disarmed. They have done it.

Willow turns and their eyes lock. The sun finally crawls out and reaches down as if to embrace them.

“Kufu!” she calls, a light of hope in her eyes. She begins to run toward him, her arms outstretched. He reaches for her.

 

“Do it quickly, I said!” It was Commander Hu. Kufu’s eyes went wide. He shook the driving rain from his visor.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Kufu! Please!” Willow screamed, her face flooded with tears.

He raised a hand to his lips.

“Shh,” he said, trying to calm her. But the promise felt like ash in his mouth.

He opened his eyes and squeezed the trigger.

The awful sound rings out and echoes like laughter amidst the booming thunder. Willow’s body slumped to the ground. A hand clasped Kufu’s shoulders.

“Well done,” Commander Hu said. “Now load up!”

It was for an a athletic shoe store chain coming to my area. They came to my store, where i was the shoe department manager, and tried to poach me. I was making a good living where I was but decided to see what else was out there. I agreed to an interview on my day off.

I walk in and the place is blaring hip hop music over the sound system. I had to shout at the person that approached me.

The interview was two rah rah type people that wanted me to high five them after every accomplishment I mentioned.

Once they completed that part that starting talking about how the salespeople are “mercenaries” in this company and their sales ability is their weapon. After that one of them said that :you should never feel down that you’re a shoe salesman….People scoff at me but if they’re not careful I’ll sell them the clothes they’re wearing” “I have never had a customer walk out without buying at least one pair” “I make a lot of money……I could have easily gone to law school but I make a lot of money here”

We completed the interview and they walked me out. While driving home I decided that even if I was offered a position there’s no way I could see myself there.

Two years later they went under largely due to a very non PC Super Bowl ad

Danish Berry Pudding (Rodgrod)

626110e188b6eec496881415dbacf4c9
626110e188b6eec496881415dbacf4c9

Ingredients

  • 1 (10 ounce) package frozen raspberries, thawed
  • 1 (10 ounce) package frozen strawberries, thawed
  • 1/4 cup cornstarch
  • 2 tablespoons granulated sugar
  • 1/2 cup cold water
  • 1 tablespoon lemon juice
  • Slivered almonds

Instructions

  1. Puree berries in blender or press through sieve.
  2. Mix cornstarch and sugar in saucepan.
  3. Gradually stir in water; add puree. Heat to boiling, stirring constantly. Boil and stir 1 minute.
  4. Remove from heat; stir in lemon juice.
  5. Pour into dessert dishes or serving bowl.
  6. Cover and refrigerate at least 2 hours.
  7. Sprinkle with almonds; serve with half and half if desired.

Well, the first phone I remember was quite easy to use. You just picked up the handset and told the operator who you wanted to talk to. If you were bored you could just pick up the phone and listen to one of the neighbors who shared the party line with you. Our next door neighbor, Snooks, was always on the phone so sometimes it was impossible to use the phone.

Later on we had our own line and a phone with a dial on it. Phone numbers started with the first two letters of a word. Ours was PLaza. Calls outside our little town were all long distance. You only called people outside your town when you really needed to talk to them.

Pay phones were always a dime unless the call was long distance. When I was someplace that I needed my parents to pick me up to save a dime I would call and let it ring two times and hang up to get my dime back. They knew when it rang twice they should come and get me.

If someone was long distance and hard to reach you could make a person-to-person call. It wasn’t cheap but the operator would get the person on the line and once she had them would call you back and connect you. If you needed to get someone’s number you just dialed O and the operator would get the number for you.

The standard phone gave way to the more stylish and compact Princess phones, Eventually the dial phones gave way to push buttons phones, bag phones came out for more portability, then cell phones came along I remember one person showing me his flip phone. He had paid $ 1500.00 for it. Nokia made them much cheaper and then Blackberry’s became the hot new phone. Of course Apple changed all that.

Even the tiniest creatures deserve respect and care

A couple of relevant stories:

When my parents were still alive they lived in Canada and when my mother fell and broke her hip my father managed to get her into the house on his own and then called 911 – an ambulance took her to the hospital and she was seen by an orthopod for a hip replacement. While this was happening my father told me what was happening and I did everything a son was supposed to do – meaning booked flights to get me there asap. The one thing I didn’t have to do is worry about how to pay for this – fact is, the only out of pocket expense my father had to cover was parking fees at the hospital parking lot.

Fast forward many years until my wife and I had retired to Canada. My wife has glaucoma and during her last scheduled visit with her doctor she was diagnosed with a detached retina. This was about 10:00 a.m. on a Wednesday morning. By 1:00 that afternoon she was being seen by a specialist who scheduled her for surgery on Friday morning. We spent all day Thursday going thru the usual tests to confirm that she wasn’t going to have a heart attack on the table and so forth. She was in for surgery at 9:30 on Friday morning and her first followup was Saturday morning. The only charges we had to cover at the hospital was parking on Saturday because the free lot was already full.

Rednote EXPOSES the Truth: Americans Say China’s Better… And the US is a 3rd World Country!

What happens when Americans discover the truth about life in China?

In this jaw-dropping Rednote compilation, we bring you raw and unfiltered reactions as Americans learn how the Chinese afford groceries, healthcare, and more—without drowning in debt.

From shock to frustration, many even claim that America feels like a 3rd world country compared to China’s advancements.

Watch as they grapple with the reality of China’s thriving society and question their own situation back home.

Will this change their perspective? You’ll have to see their reactions to believe it!

Chinese yuan is not tied to the dollar. It is tied to a basket of currencies in which the dollar is one of them.

The yuan is not in continuous depreciation of the dollar. It is the opposite.

Strength of the dollar in the last 2 years was due to the Fed’s interest hikes. Its exchange value is now under pressure.

Eternity and the Kettle Song

Submitted into Contest #287 in response to: Start or end your story with a character making a cup of tea for themself or someone else. view prompt

Hugh Bezemer

I sometimes visit a perfect recollection of that night. An echo, embossed by my years of study and still remembered by the atoms of my aging body. My instinct, of course, as I lifted my head from the damp pillow into the deep silence of my childhood bedroom, darkened by blackout blinds, was to brace for the sudden spike in heart rate, loneliness and the inexorable dread that had been waking me since I had moved back into my parents’ house. On that night, the 30th of January 2025, seven minutes and 43 seconds passed before I realised that my fists were clenched by my side and my teeth were set down hard against one another; but I hadn’t needed to adopt this fighting stance. So, I sunk back into my mattress and a softness crept into the edges of my eyes; a sense that, even through the darkness, I was beginning to make out the shape of something.A few days before that I had read (I should stop doing that — it was an Instagram reel) that in 2022, in a study that won the Nobel prize in physics, professors somewhere had proved that local reality isn’t real. That night I was still an ignorant layman and the esoteric concepts did take a while to filter down to me. Even though I had spent longer than I’d meant to on my feed, trying to meet those mythical popular physics presenters halfway as they explained the concept, I’m not sure I’d got all that much closer to understanding the implications. The best I could do was this: we think of an object as either green or red, or in possession of some property, BUT, because of some unbreakable symmetry with its quantum particle pair, this can change instantaneously, faster than light travels, on the basis of a symmetrical change on the other side of the universe. The things we perceive about an object are not fixed to that object, but dance around as reflections, distant whirs of one another.Before those endless afternoons of scrolling through posts and waking in the middle of the night fearful and crying, I had spent six months in your flat, seldom brushing my teeth, barely leaving the bed, in unwashed pyjamas, trying to find something that felt worth doing. Those months had been hard and beautiful. We’d had two beagles then, with big watery eyes and slobbery cheerful tongues, your mother brought me things she thought I might like when she travelled to England, you made me tea in mugs we’d painted together on brighter days. A sweet life in the haze. On a lot of those evenings, after you got home from work, you’d try to say something, try to point out that you felt it too, try to hold my hand. I wanted it to work, I wanted to say the right thing at the right time, and we’d both know what we wanted for ourselves and for each other and for the dogs, but instead, we’d sit and watch a show or look at our phones for a while with the space between us folding; approaching infinity.Close to midnight, at the end of that impossible January, I had drawn my eyes back into a squint in the darkness and realised that, unlike the night before and all the painful nights preceding, none of that tarnished rose gold light that had so often crept into my vision remained. The sense that I needed to return to the soft warmth of our shared bed before I’d ever sleep again had vanished. What was there didn’t circle and demand justice with ominous spectral gestures. I could hear something, a hum, as though I had found myself suspended at that point in the oscillation of a rubber band where on either side it crests to a tense and taught amplitude but for an immeasurable instant is perfectly still.The sound seemed to vanish but then, like a deep sonorous breath, it returned. As I lay there listening to that strange resonant rise and fall, the pattern emerged. I rushed over to the kitchen, flicking my tongue back and forth in my mouth to keep the time and sound it out; gripped by the thought that this might vanish from me like so many details from so many dreams. I found pots and pans. They wouldn’t do for the pitch. Maybe glasses part filled with water? No. Then there on the counter: the recorder. I’d used it to learn how to play Hot Cross Buns in third grade. I picked it up and put it to my lips. Froze. Remembered a crucial step. I filled the kettle and put it on the stove, counted 23 beats and began to play, softly blowing out the tune I had been transposing from the air around me. The moment the kettle’s whistle chimed in; I knew what everything meant.I never told my parents why they had found me, ecstatic and naked at three o’clock in the morning, accompanying their kettle’s deafening whistle on a dusty spittle-drenched recorder. Why I had laughed maniacally afterwards, drinking my tea and watching the sunrise. They were concerned for a while and my mum would cautiously try to raise it for months whenever she perceived me to be calm and collected, though I seldom was. In every quiet moment, I was listening to those resonances.

My parents were surprised but satisfied, proud and relieved, as parents of physicists tend to be, when I moved here to CERN following my studies.

The first song I heard had not been mine. It was the bridge between you and the fixed point to which you travelled, each small vibration mapping the decisions you’d make, the people you’d love, every detail down to the rakish angle of a stray eyebrow hair you’d grow in your late thirties.

The next was mine. Once I had tuned myself to that frequency it became quite simple. Over the years I’ve gone through the necessary terminology of quarks, lectured on quantum entanglement, buttered up the right engineers and research institutes. I don’t like to brag, but if this didn’t work and tomorrow arrives, the Pentagon would scarcely be able to afford a single pair of camouflage bike shorts, or whatever else it is they spend their massive budget on.

I’m sure this will never be read but if it is I am sorry, dear reader, today I feel like letting it all out, as these languid celebratory polemics, despite their futility. It has been a long time since an entry in this journal has been so necessary or so blissfully self-indulgent. I’ve been pontificating. I’ve tended to recapitulate and adapt the research of my colleagues, ventilate about their parochial focus, or half-heartedly meditate on my designs. I also sometimes write an entertaining parody of Dr. Žižek, who believes I will singlehandedly bring about the cessation of existence. The old fool would miss his imported cheese and pickles very dearly. None of it worthy. Tomorrow, however, is special, it will be for a while the 31st of January 2054, until I decide that it is again the 31st of January 2025. They will never know that I have built and will build again and again, an instrument on which only I can play out the perfect tune of time.

It’s funny, you thought all those seemingly arbitrary coincidences excluded the possibility of God, but in many senses, I have become an intentional and conscious creator. I call the next round. You wouldn’t understand the working or the proofs, but for you it probably suffices as an explanation to say that there will always be a rubber band that fixes you and your destiny. You will in every instance follow your band and tomorrow, when I press my rather comical big red button (you would have loved the facility I’ve designed), I get to decide how hard to strum the rubber. I couldn’t spare myself that small luxury.

So, when the world is reborn on that first morning that I chose to forget you, I’ll sit in the warm sun, waiting for slow swirls to seep from my teabag, I’ll be met with a distinct chord and, without knowing what I’ve done, my eyes will glow with the mischief you claimed to love. I’ll whistle each subtly distinct note of the happy Sisyphus you’ll have to learn to be on a given go-round, lingering in the moment where I sip from my steaming mug and set myself on the path to divinity.

When Prince died a few years ago, he left 8,000 songs. I don’t mean a few jotted-down lyrics. I mean completely recorded, produced songs ready for distribution. The former Spotify executive who was tasked with managing this part of the estate, publicly estimated that there were hundreds of album’s worth of material.

There are singer/songwriters. Then there is Prince.

I note this because most people just have no idea what motivates the best engineers on the planet. We actually have a label for them. 10x engineers. People who are ten times more productive than their colleagues. They are to their professions what Prince was to modern music.

They don’t do it for the money. They do it because the project is cool.

In 2015, when Musk said this, Apple was thinking they could build an electric car and gild it with Apple’s taste in industrial design. Naturally, they were trying to hire Tesla engineers, who were at the cutting edge of all the requisite technologies.

The thing is, you can’t actually hire away the best engineers, because talented engineers are motivated by the cutting edge, the chance to create something new in the world. Apple is a lot like Microsoft in the sense that they don’t invent new technology, they repackage it. Apple for the luxury market, Microsoft for the corporate customer. This isn’t a criticism. Both models work very well and are very profitable, but they don’t appeal to 10x engineers.

So, in the final analysis, Musk was simple stating a simple truth. Apple wasn’t getting Tesla’s braintrust, they were getting passionless engineers more motivated by the hygiene (financial benefits) than the actual work.

I’ve seen this my entire career, in fact, I’ve been that guy. I quit two jobs because I just wasn’t excited about what the company was doing. By all rights, I should be retired right now, but my job is just too much fun to surrender.

This isn’t to say those engineers that took the money are bad. In fact many of them are quite talented, but just like there are musicians and then there is Prince, there are talented engineers and then there are the legends.

I have little doubt that Apple failed because when the going got tough, they just didn’t have the insane engineers that could push the envelope.

We know that the company was named for Nicola Tesla, and I think most people assume that electricity is the connection, but perhaps the most salient commonality between the icon and his eponymous descendent is the passion and productivity they share.

Danish Pickled Cucumbers
(Syltede Agurker)

86fc328bae6e3d78b810b3d1f01396dc
86fc328bae6e3d78b810b3d1f01396dc

Ingredients

  • 2 medium cucumbers, thinly sliced
  • 1/3 cup cider vinegar
  • 1/3 cup water
  • 2 tablespoons granulated sugar
  • 1/2 teaspoon salt
  • 1/8 teaspoon pepper
  • Minced dill weed or parsley

Instructions

  1. Place cucumbers in non-reactive bowl.
  2. Mix vinegar, water, sugar, salt and pepper; pour over cucumbers.
  3. Cover and refrigerate, stirring occasionally, at least 3 hours.
  4. Drain; sprinkle with dill weed.

Back around 1980 my beloved 1956 Chevy was stolen from out front of a pizzeria where I once worked. First it took some convincing from the guys I knew there that they didn’t hide it. Then I called the police to report it stolen.

Since this was pre cell phone, I stayed at the shop and gave the police that number to call me. I also called my father to advise him of the situation in case anyone called the house. Then I waited..

Maybe an hour later cops in the next town called to say they had it. It was sitting parked on a street and looked fine. I should sit tight and they’d call me back.

I sat for another hour and they called to say they lost the car! The cop who was sitting on it got an emergency call to answer. He came back and it was gone!

At that point the store was closing so I got a ride back home. The next day I got a call from another town that they had the car in impound. It had been abandoned in a field. Stereo and Cragar wheels missing. Some glass broken and seats slashed. I was heartbroken!

I bought some junkyard wheels, brought the car home and sold it.

THE CURE – JUST LIKE HEAVEN (40 LIVE – CURÆTION-25 + ANNIVERSARY)

A tariff is nothing less than a sales tax paid at the border by the buyer. So when Walmart imports TVs from China, it now pays a 10% sales tax (tariff, duty, import tax, pick your word) on the wholesale price of that TV. Walmart has to raise its price to cover that tax. Does it benefit you to pay an extra 10% for a TV? I doubt it. Here’s the deal though. trump is literally raising taxes on the middle class without saying he’s raising taxes. They’re invisible to the common man in Walmart. But with all those tariffs raising the general revenue, somebody’s gonna get a big fat tax cut. Guess who? Hint – It won’t be you.

Of course, it’s a lot more complicated than all that. After all, he’s demolishing America’s reputation, spitting in the eyes of our allies and giving warm hugs to communist dictators. Nothing good is going to come from this.

A while back, I mentioned a couple of recent trips in an answer, and you guys were very curious to hear more about them! I promised I’d write a little recap at some point, and here I am to make good on my word. The first of my journeys took place in a remote Spanish wilderness, where I went in search of a very, very rare species.

My destination was Sierra de Andújar National Park, deep in the mountains of southern Spain. It’s one of the most wildlife-rich areas of Europe, home to an astounding array of fauna. Most amazingly of all, it’s one of just two places in the world where you can see the Iberian lynx, one of the rarest wildcats on the planet. I had just one day to attempt to find this elusive feline, so my search began before sunrise.

As daylight emerged, the mountains were clothed in a beautiful layer of mist. As it happened, it had been the coldest night all year in Sierra de Andújar, and much of the vegetation was covered in frost! Not the kind of scenery I was expecting when I took flight to southern Spain, but breathtaking nonetheless.

It wasn’t long before my first wildlife sightings. Grey herons and great cormorants perched in the boughs of trees by the river. Meanwhile, in the water itself, some beautiful Eurasian river otters were feeding! Though this species is technically native to my home city of Dublin, they’re extremely hard to spot here, so I had never actually seen a wild otter up until this point. Seeing them glide through the water effortlessly was such a tranquil sight!

I also saw this really cool spider web near the riverside:

And this distant Eurasian hoopoe! The Eurasian hoopoe is a glorious bird, not done justice by my photo. Its feathers are a cinnamon-orange colour, with black and white bars on the wings. Most notably of all, it’s got a huge crest of plumage on its head, almost like a mohawk! The species is actually most common in the more tropical regions of Africa and Asia, but also extends to Europe.

As midday approached, the lynx quest continued. Deep in a mountain valley, I managed to spot the Iberian lynx’s favourite food: a European rabbit. Though its name might suggest it is widespread, it’s actually only native to Spain, Portugal, and the southwest of France.

The diet of the lynx is made up almost entirely of rabbits. A male will usually eat about one a day. Despite being smaller, a female with cubs to feed needs three! As far as I could tell, this little guy hopped off to live another day. Who knows how he’s doing now…

I eventually found myself in a steep valley, with sheer rocky cliffs rising up on both sides. Here I was greeted by a spectacular sight: a herd of Iberian ibex! Masters of the mountains, these goat-like animals can ascend or descend impossible slopes with astonishing ease. Squishy, flexible pads in their hooves help them grip onto even the steepest terrain.

The herd crested over the ridge and then began to surge downward, leaping from rock to rock. I almost thought they were going to come all the way to the valley floor and greet me, but they dashed into a forested hillside and vanished as abruptly as they had appeared.

These two males decided to have a headbutting match on the precipice of the cliff. Just goes to show how little they fear the drop!

In the azure sky, some incredible birds were circling. I lost count of the number of cinereous vultures and Eurasian griffon vultures overhead. Both of these species are aerial titans, but the former is particularly magnificent. The wingspan of the cinereous vulture can measure over three metres across, and it can weigh up to 14 kilograms. This makes it one of the largest flying birds on the planet!

Due to their massive size, the vultures have to use a little help to stay in the air. Their wings catch thermals, immense columns of rising air found above ground that’s been heated by the sun. Thanks to this extra lift, they can soar all day long watching for carcasses to swoop down on. My photo shows a pair of griffons in tandem flight.

After a long time scanning the skies, I managed to spot some even rarer avians – a golden eagle and a Spanish imperial eagle, pictured on the left and right respectively. Both of these birds were flying at an incredibly high altitude, so even at maximum zoom my camera could only capture these blurry images.

It was still amazing to see them though! The golden eagle is one of the most impressive predators on Earth – a flying bird capable of taking down fully-grown sheep. The Spanish imperial eagle is not quite as gigantic nor as fierce, but it’s found only in Iberia, and is a rare sight even in its home range.

Another bird to be found in this spot was the Eurasian crag-martin. Not just one, but a whole colony of them! Crag-martins are unique because, as their name suggests, they live only on rocky cliff faces, where they meticulously build nests out of hundreds upon hundreds of mud pellets. This particularly large group had set up their village on an old dam! It’s always fascinating when human-made structures turn into habitats for wildlife.

I was also finding some unusual insect life. Coolest of all was this Mediterranean conehead praying mantis! It was hiding in a dead bush, camouflaged exceptionally well as a twig, so as not to be seen by its prey. I’m surprised I even managed to spot it.

Nearby was a striking Indian milkweed bug:

And this bizarre writhing mass of caterpillars, which I later identified as belonging to the Herculean processionary, an incredible type of moth. It gets its name from the way its caterpillars move in a single-file conga line, like a procession. These guys seemed to be taking a break from their parade, alas. The Latin name of the genus, Thaumatopoea, translates roughly to “marvellous achievement”.

After some more time searching, I finally came upon the Holy Grail – an Iberian lynx! It was extremely far away, initially spotted by local wildlife photographers who use powerful telephoto lenses to capture it. Thankfully my safari guide had a telescope setup so I was able to get a good look.

The lynx was basking in the sun, lying on a rock. Like most cat species, they spend most of their day at rest. Eventually, it got up, and strolled away across the grassy shrubland. This was really cool to witness, as precious few people get to see an Iberian lynx on the move. It had been so distant as to be invisible to the naked eye up till now, but thanks to its movements I could now make it out without any telescope or camera. Apologies for the poor photo!

It wasn’t even lunchtime at this point in the day, so I was absolutely thrilled to have already completed my main goal for the trip and observed a wild Iberian lynx. I still had a good five or six hours of daylight left so I pressed on and continued looking for wildlife! My journey led me to a lovely woodland whose dappled light hid a wide variety of animals.

This included this handsome red deer stag, one of the largest deer species in the world.

As well as these European fallow deer:

I also saw a stunning red fox, but it darted across the road before I could get a photo. Red foxes are a common sight where I live, but this was still an exciting encounter, because it belonged to a unique subspecies – the Iberian fox. This type lacks the iconic rusty red colour normally seen in this species, instead being a frosty grey! Interestingly, the standard European fox (the same subspecies we have here in Ireland) is also found in Spain, coexisting with its ashen cousin.

The next animal I ticked off was this Geniez’s wall lizard, which I found lying under a bush. Spain has a surprisingly diverse assemblage of reptile species, and while I unfortunately didn’t manage to spot any of its snakes, I was happy to come away with a nice lizard sighting.

Here’s another one!

There’s so much small life to be seen if your eyes are open to it, especially in a place like Sierra de Andújar. I went looking for bats in a tunnel, for example, and managed to find this adorable little mouse-eared bat! The tunnels here were carved out long ago by rather crude means – builders would drill down thin vertical chutes from atop the mountains, and drop sticks of dynamite down them. The explosions left a jagged, roughly hewn passageway.

As it turns out, what remains of the old dynamite chutes make the perfect roosting spots for bats like this guy. Another example of disused human structures turning into animal habitats!

Suddenly, we received word that there had been another Iberian lynx sighting by local photographers, in a different part of the area. We rushed to the scene of course, and there he was! A magnificent cat, curled up in a ball in the shade of trees. At the start of the day, I didn’t fancy my chances of seeing one lynx – the prospect of seeing two within a few hours of each other was incomprehensible!

This time he wasn’t quite as distant, though still barely more than a faraway blob to the naked eye. I managed to get some nice photos by holding my phone up to the telescope! He looks like he’s dreaming of rabbits…

After a while, he got up to stretch. This was amazing to see – the way he dropped his chest to the ground and leaned back onto his back legs reminded me so much of my dog back home, doing that “greeting stretch” canines so often do. One couldn’t help but say “biiiiiig stretchhh” at the sight. It was the perfect way to end a day full of breathtaking wildlife encounters.

The second of my wildlife-focused trips this year was a little further afield, to the Arctic Circle! That one will have to wait for another answer though, I think, it’s getting late. I went on both of these trips with some friends from college who also love animals – I’m very grateful to have them! Thank you everyone for reading. I know it’s not my usual type of answer, so I hope it was still enjoyable! Have a great day.

Sir Whiskerton and Beekeeper Beatrice’s Bumbling Bees: A Tale of Stings, Honey, and Sweet Lessons

Ah, dear reader, prepare yourself for a tale of buzzing chaos, sticky situations, and one very determined cat who saved the farm from a honey-covered disaster. Today’s story is one of mishaps, growth, and the importance of patience and care. So, grab your beekeeper suit (or a jar of honey, if you must), as we dive into Sir Whiskerton and Beekeeper Beatrice’s Bumbling Bees: A Tale of Stings, Honey, and Sweet Lessons.


The Arrival of Beekeeper Beatrice

It all began on a sunny morning, just as the farm was waking up to the gentle hum of bees buzzing around the hives. The animals were going about their usual routines—Doris the Hen was clucking about the latest gossip, Rufus the Dog was chasing his tail (as usual), and Sir Whiskerton was perched on the barn roof, surveying his domain with a satisfied flick of his tail.

But something was different. A new figure had arrived on the farm—a human wearing a wide-brimmed hat, a flowing dress, and a pair of gloves that looked far too big for her hands. She carried a smoker in one hand and a jar of honey in the other, her face beaming with enthusiasm.

“Good morning, everyone!” she called out, her voice cheerful but slightly nervous. “I’m Beatrice, the new beekeeper. I’m here to tend to your hives and make sure your bees are happy and healthy!”

The animals exchanged curious glances. “A beekeeper?” Doris squawked, flapping her wings. “What in the name of cluck is a beekeeper doing here?”

“Beekeeper!” Harriet echoed, tilting her head.

“Bees!” Lillian added, fainting dramatically onto a pile of hay.

Sir Whiskerton leapt down from the barn roof and approached Beatrice, his tail flicking with curiosity. “Welcome to the farm, Miss Beatrice. I am Sir Whiskerton, the resident detective and problem solver. We appreciate your assistance with the bees, but I must warn you—they can be quite… spirited.”

Beatrice laughed, her cheeks flushing with excitement. “Oh, don’t worry about me! I’ve read all the books on beekeeping. I’m practically an expert!”

Sir Whiskerton raised an eyebrow, his skepticism evident. “Very well. But please, proceed with caution. The bees are not to be trifled with.”


Beatrice’s Bumbling Beginnings

Beatrice’s first attempt at beekeeping was, to put it mildly, a disaster. She approached the hives with confidence, her smoker puffing out clouds of smoke. But as soon as she opened the first hive, the bees erupted in a furious swarm, their buzzing filling the air like an angry orchestra.

“Oh dear!” Beatrice cried, waving her arms in a futile attempt to calm the bees. “I didn’t mean to upset you!”

The bees, however, were not impressed. They descended on Beatrice in a cloud of stinging fury, leaving her covered in red welts and honey. She stumbled backward, tripping over a rock and landing in a patch of mud.

“Cluck!” Doris squawked, flapping her wings in alarm. “She’s being attacked by the bees!”

“Bees!” Harriet echoed, ducking behind a hay bale.

“Attack!” Lillian added, fainting dramatically onto a pile of hay.

Sir Whiskerton sighed, his tail flicking with concern. “This is most unfortunate. Miss Beatrice, are you alright?”

Beatrice sat up, her dress covered in mud and her hat askew. “I’m fine, I’m fine!” she said, her voice trembling. “Just a few stings. Nothing to worry about!”

But the bees were not done with her. As she tried to stand, they swarmed around her again, their buzzing growing louder and more aggressive. Beatrice flailed her arms, accidentally knocking over a nearby jar of honey. The sticky liquid spilled onto the ground, creating a slippery, golden puddle.

“Oh no!” Beatrice cried, slipping and sliding as she tried to escape the bees. “This is not how it’s supposed to go!”


The Farm in Chaos

As Beatrice’s beekeeping mishaps continued, chaos erupted on the farm. The spilled honey attracted every insect within a mile radius, from ants to wasps to a particularly bold butterfly. The animals, meanwhile, were caught in the crossfire.

Rufus the Dog, ever the curious one, bounded over to investigate the honey puddle. “Ooh, honey!” he barked, sticking his nose into the sticky mess. But as soon as he did, the bees turned their attention to him, stinging his nose and sending him running in circles.

“Yelp! Yelp! Yelp!” Rufus cried, his tail tucked between his legs. “Help! The bees are after me!”

Porkchop the Pig, drawn by the smell of honey, waddled over to the puddle. “Mmm, honey,” he said, licking his lips. But as soon as he dipped his snout into the sticky liquid, the bees swarmed him too, leaving him covered in stings and honey.

“Oink! Oink!” Porkchop squealed, rolling on the ground in a desperate attempt to escape the bees. “This is worse than the time I ate too many acorns!”

Even Bessie the Tie-Dye Cow, usually so calm and collected, found herself caught in the chaos. As she tried to help Beatrice, she stepped in the honey puddle and slipped, landing in a heap of mud and sticky sweetness.

“Moo!” Bessie groaned, her mood ring turning a deep shade of purple. “This is not groovy at all!”

Sir Whiskerton, observing the chaos from the barn roof, knew it was time to intervene. “This has gone far enough,” he said, leaping down to the ground. “The farm cannot function under such disorder. I shall restore order and teach Miss Beatrice the importance of caution.”


Sir Whiskerton’s Solution

Sir Whiskerton approached Beatrice, who was now hiding behind a hay bale, her face covered in stings and her dress a sticky, muddy mess. “Miss Beatrice,” he said, his voice calm but firm, “your enthusiasm is commendable, but your methods need refinement. Beekeeping requires patience, care, and respect for the bees.”

Beatrice nodded, her eyes filled with tears. “I know, I know. I just wanted to help, but everything went wrong!”

Sir Whiskerton placed a paw on her shoulder. “The road to mastery is paved with mistakes. But now, we must focus on fixing this mess. Follow my lead.”

Under Sir Whiskerton’s guidance, Beatrice began to approach the bees with more care. She moved slowly and deliberately, using the smoker to calm the bees before opening the hives. She wore her gloves properly and kept her movements gentle, earning the bees’ trust.

As she worked, the bees began to calm down, their buzzing growing softer and less aggressive. The spilled honey was cleaned up, and the farm slowly returned to normal.


The Moral of the Story

As the farm recovered from the chaos, the animals reflected on the day’s events.

The moral of the story, dear reader, is this: Patience and care are key. Beatrice’s initial bumbling attempts at beekeeping caused chaos, but her willingness to learn and adapt showed the importance of humility and perseverance. The bees, though small, reminded everyone that even the tiniest creatures deserve respect and care. And through it all, Sir Whiskerton’s wisdom reminded everyone that even the stickiest situations can be resolved with patience and determination.


A Happy Ending

With the bees calm and the farm back to normal, Beatrice gathered the animals for a celebratory feast. She had learned her lesson and was eager to prove herself as a capable beekeeper.

“Thank you, Sir Whiskerton,” Beatrice said, her face glowing with gratitude. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Sir Whiskerton adjusted his monocle and smirked. “You’re welcome, Miss Beatrice. Remember, the world is full of challenges, but with patience and care, you can overcome anything.”

As the sun set over the farm, the animals laughed and chatted, their bond stronger than ever. Sir Whiskerton lounged on his favorite sunbeam, content in the knowledge that he had once again saved the day. 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 lessons, and the enduring importance of patience and care. Until next time, may your days be filled with laughter, love, and just a little bit of feline genius.

The End.

No. Here’s why.

A friend of mine got a new Tesla and excitedly offered me a ride. The self-driven ride was unimpressive, but whatever. But the air vent was blowing in my face and to my astonishment, it turned out the only way to move any of the vents is by means of a touch screen.

This is not a feature. It’s STUPID. The vent is right there in front of me. The CORRECT design is the same design used in ever care since AC was invented—reach out and move the fucker.

Any other design is STUPID. The car was designed by a stupid person. I don’t intentionally ride in, much less buy, cars made by stupid people.

And if that alone weren’t reason enough, when I visited the Mt. Wilson Observatory a while back, there were signs in the parking lot warning Tesla owners that the radio emissions from the broadcast equipment on the mountain were known to disable the (obviously unshielded) locks of Teslas. Because they were designed by stupid people.

So no.

Shorpy

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This is basically any UK job in research & development involving personal care and consumer products. You’re expected to be both an industry genius and come up with new products like some kind of marketing expert, while also being told everything you’re doing is wrong because you’re a state-schooled idiot, you’re getting paid little more than the minimum wage, and you’re living with the constant fear that your job will soon be outsourced abroad due to other people’s financial incompetence.

I worked in that toxic shithole for 13 years, and have now moved to an R&D role in an industry which has more realistic expectations, much better pay, and companies that don’t have to lay off 2/3 of their staff to save costs every year when their accounts get audited.

U.S. Wants Countries to Pay MEMBERSHIP FEE to Sell In America & Pay For Massive Tax Cuts

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There are actually two.

The first photo is of a young Venezuelan named Andrys—a 23-year-old gay makeup artist who was disappeared by the Trump administration, recently identified publicly for the first time. Last week, he was deported, (read: human trafficked to perform slave labor) into a Salvadoran mega-prison without due process, without a court hearing, and without evidence—solely based on suspicion of gang ties.

The second photo was captured by an American photojournalist embedded inside that same mega-prison in El Salvador. The journalist documented the experiences of detainees, including American residents who’ve had their constitutional rights suspended.

This quote from the Time article should turn your blood cold: “The intake began with slaps. One young man sobbed when a guard pushed him to the floor. He said, ‘I’m not a gang member. I’m gay. I’m a barber.’ I believed him. But maybe it’s only because he didn’t look like what I had expected—he wasn’t a tattooed monster.” What the Venezuelans Deported to El Salvador Experienced

Did this journalist unknowingly witness Andrys’s abuse and imprisonment?

Why must we—citizens of the United States—piece together these horrifying details while politicians ignore our courts, our Constitution, and the basic principles underpinning American democracy? If they can do this to Andrys, who’s next?

“Repulsive” and “evil” don’t even scratch the surface.This is one of the darkest periods in American history, and we’re living through it right now.

Finnish Rye Bread (Suomalaisruisleip )

To serve this loaf, cut it into wedges, and spread with butter or soft, mild cheese.

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Ingredients

  • 1 package active dry yeast
  • 1 1/4 cups warm water* (105 to 115 degrees F)
  • 1 tablespoon packed brown sugar
  • 1 tablespoon vegetable oil
  • 1 1/2 teaspoons salt
  • 1 1/4 cups medium rye flour
  • 1 1/2 to 2 cups all-purpose flour
  • Butter or margarine, softened

Instructions

  1. Dissolve yeast in warm water in large bowl.
  2. Stir in brown sugar, oil, salt and 1 cup of the rye flour. Beat until smooth.
  3. Stir in enough all-purpose flour to make the dough easy to handle.
  4. Turn dough onto surface that has been sprinkled with the remaining rye flour.
  5. Cover; let rest 10 to 15 minutes.
  6. Knead until smooth and elastic, about 5 minutes.
  7. Place in greased bowl; turn greased side up. Cover; let rise in warm place until double, about 1 hour. Dough is ready if indentation remains when touched.
  8. Punch down dough; shape into a round, slightly flat loaf.
  9. Place in greased 9 x 1 1/2-inch round pan.
  10. Cover; let rise until double, about 1 hour.
  11. Heat oven to 375 degrees F.
  12. Bake until loaf sounds hollow when tapped, 40 to 50 minutes.
  13. Immediately remove from pan.
  14. Brush top of loaf with butter; cool on wire rack.

Notes

* Potato water can be substituted for the water. This is the water in which potatoes have been cooked. This is traditional for Finnish Rye Bread.

A sultan heard that there was a slave girl in the market whose price exceeded that of a hundred other slaves.

He sent for this slave to see what made her so exceptional.

She stood before him with a dignity he had never seen in other slaves.

She asked her, “Why is your price so high, young lady?”

She replied: “Because I am distinguished by my intelligence.”

Intrigued, he said, “I will ask you a question. If you answer correctly, I will release you. If not, I will kill you.”

“What is the finest garment, the sweetest perfume, the most delicious food, the softest bed, and the most beautiful country?”

The slave turned to those present and said, “Prepare my things and my horse, for I am leaving this palace a free woman.”

“The finest garment is the shirt of the poor man who has only one, because he finds it suitable for both winter and summer.”

“The most pleasant scent is that of a mother, even if she is simply a fire blower in a public bathroom.”

“The most delicious food is the one you eat when you are hungry, because when you are hungry, even stale bread is delicious.”

“The softest bed is the one on which you sleep in peace. If you are unjust, even a bed of gold will seem full of thorns.”

She walked towards the door and the Sultan called out to her: “You have not answered my last question…”

He turned around and said, “The most beautiful country is one that is free and not governed by ignorant people.”

He had answered correctly and thus gained his freedom.

Yes, he was right: the most beautiful country is the one not governed by ignorant people…

Stephen McManus

Everything started after the dead monkey reanimated, smashed out the glass cage and attacked Dr. Pangilinan. The ear-shattering biocontainment alarm blared moments after the glass cracked. By the time Dr. Lee turned to see what was happening, the creature had exploded into the lab. It leapt onto Pang’s arm, biting deeply, breaking bone. He swung his arm wildly launching the creature across the room. It landed with a meaty thud, slid sideways on the polished floor, and swept the legs out from under a heavy table. The table tipped over, with the edge of its black soapstone desktop crushing the monkey’s skull like a grape. The things body twitched involuntarily for several minutes.“Carol, turn off that alarm,” grunted Pang, clutching his bloody arm.Dr. Lee stared at him blankly. 

“Dr. Lee, turn off that alarm!” he screamed.

 

Shaking her head she darted to the wall, flipped the plastic lid and pressed the red button. Silence filled the room, broken only by Pang’s rapid breathing and the drip of some fluid on the far side of the lab.

 

“Carol, please get the first aid kit,” said Pang. With difficulty he propped himself up against his desk, the ruined arm braced awkwardly in his lap.

 

Carolyn Lee, PhD virologist, 51 years old, nervously adjusted her wire-framed glasses. The first aid kit was in the coat closet. As always over the last few months she hesitated for a second before entering the closet. Every time she did she thought of that night, that crazy erotic night that upended her mostly happy marriage. But she yanked the door open anyway, grabbed the kit from the shelf and raced back to Pang.

 

He sat with legs extended, eyes closed, gritting his teeth. The crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes were deep ruts as if carved from wood. She squatted and he smiled weakly. “Just use the spray and wrap it in gauze.” He exhaled painfully as the cool antibacterial spray foamed on the open wound. A faint alcohol smell filled the air, whisked away quickly by the negative pressure air vents.

 

“Drs. Lee and Pangilinan, the biocontainment breach protocol has been activated. You will not be able to leave the laboratory before the cleaners arrive,” droned the voice of Artemis, the security A.I.

 

Reflexively, they looked at the camera wedged into the top corner of the lab.

 

Pang leaned back his head, which was still covered in thick salt and pepper hair despite being 60 years old, resting it on his desk. “Okay, we have about twenty minutes before they break down that door.” He winced as pain jumped up his arm. “Damn, this hurts. Anyway, biocontainment protocol means we’re about to enter isolation for a very long time or, well, or something else, more permanent.”

 

Carol stood, looked around at the sterile white walls, the shattered cage, the lifeless body of the monkey and said, pointing across the room, nearly hysterical, “That monkey was dead, okay? I checked it myself! How did that thing escape?!”

 

Wearily, he responded, “I don’t know, Carol, but it’s a good question. Let me just think for a second. The monkey received version 2.2.33 of regen pathogen R, right?”

 

Carol frowned as she turned toward him. “Wait, I thought it was supposed to get point 34, not point 33. Are you saying you injected point 33, without cleaning the cage first?”

 

Pang glowered at her. “Damn it, Carol, this is your fault! Your icy silence is how mistakes like this get made.” He was yelling now, “What happened at Christmas was dumb, but it’s over, okay, at least for me. You should’ve buried your shame or left the lab. Now you may have killed us!”

 

“Don’t bring that up,” she whispered, shaking her head. The touch of his lips on her neck, the wild intensity of the moment flared up briefly, but she pushed it back down. “We don’t have time for that.”

 

“Ah, whatever” he said, waving his arms dismissively.

 

She moved to her computer to review the data. The monkey died two hours before the attack. All of the measurements were accurate. Leaning back in her chair she swiveled and looked at the primate’s corpse. Could it have been in a vegetative state rather than dead? I guess anything is possible. She grabbed a scalpel and a box of clear glass microscope slides. Only one way to find out.

 

She stepped over Pang’s legs. He rested. Soft snoring accentuated his uneasy sleep. The broken and infected arm was swollen and black, tightening around the sleeve of his lab coat.

 

Carol stooped to sample the dead monkey after putting on plastic gloves. The thing lay in a pool of dark red blood and brain fragments. She gagged at the smell of putrefaction that wafted over her when she lifted the arm. Suddenly, the monkey’s hand curled and scratched the side of her palm. She screamed, yanked her hand away and stumbled over backwards. The claw had penetrated the thin barrier of the glove and nicked the skin. A tiny drop of blood oozed out.

 

After washing her hands with warm, soapy water she taped gauze to the wound.

 

Pang squinted his eyes against the fluorescent lights and said, “Hey, what was that scream? Are you okay?”

 

“I’m fine, I just tried to get some blood from that thing and it twitched and scratched me. It burns like crazy.”

 

“How long was I out?”

 

“Maybe a few minutes, not long, but listen, I’ve been thinking. Let’s assume that thing was actually dead. Not deeply unconscious or anything like that, but dead. Think about what just happened. I mean, it came back to life. Are you following me?”

 

Pang stared at her intently, “Yes.”

 

She perched on the edge of the desk next to Pang. “But this wasn’t regeneration, this was something else. That, that, thing was no monkey anymore. It was vicious, hostile, like totally insane.”

 

He nodded his head thoughtfully. “Yeah, so what do you think is going on?”

 

“Well, we’re talking about two hours from death to whatever happened. We inoculated the monkey roughly twelve hours before it died. The speed that it transformed is astonishing. I mean it’s ten times faster than anything we’ve seen.” She paused, bit the inside of her check, and continued more softly, “What if you’re infected? What if its bite transmitted it to you? I mean, look at your arm.”

 

His blackened fingers were round as sausages. The lab coat sleeve was so tense the seams in his shoulder were bulging. A foul sulfur smell clung to his body.

 

Pang looked from his arm to Carol. “You’re right,” he said quietly.

 

A loud bang shook the lab, jarring them. Light dust drifted from the ceiling. Carol raced to the door to look through the circular glass window. “They’re at the outer security door. They blew it off its hinges! What is going on?”

 

“Come here, Carol, quickly. This may sound crazy, but I think I know what we have to do. We can’t risk infecting those guards.” He paused, and then looked her hard in the eyes. “You’ve got to kill me before the pathogen does.”

 

She shook her head in horror. “Please, Pang, no. Don’t say that.”

 

“Stop it and just listen to me! If you’re right, and I think you are, I’m already dead. It’ll be easy.” He hooked his thumb on his necklace, pulling out a squat metal key and inserted it into the bottom drawer of his desk. He scooted over several inches to give the drawer room to open. Inside was a gray steel box containing several loaded syringes. Carol noticed a photograph of her tucked in the back. It was from a Christmas card. Pang had folded it in half, so her husband was not visible. They both pretended not to see it.

 

“These are filled mostly with potassium chloride, but also with a sedative and something that paralyzes muscle. This dose will work, trust me, it would put down a rhino. The thing is it has to be injected intravenously, so, I can’t do it myself.” He handed her a couple syringes and said, “Please, Carol, before it’s too late.”

 

Without thinking she grabbed the two syringes, checked the caps were securely in place, and backed away. They felt heavy in her hand, foreign, dangerous. “I don’t know if I can do that, Nathan.”

 

Another explosion rocked the lab, this time closer than before. Pang panted, breathing heavily as he spoke. “They just have to get through the door in lab #5 and they’ll be here. If this new pathogen is like the others it cannot survive outside a living host for more than 8 minutes. Please, Carol, you must do it quickly.”

 

She backed up numbly and bumped into her desk, absently dropping the syringes on the table top. As she sat in the swivel seat, she interlaced her fingers and tried to think. Could I murder Pang? No way. This is crazy. What if he’s wrong? We might not even be infected. I’m not killing anyone.

 

In desperation she prayed a Hail Mary, and as she did Pang’s body slid quietly to the floor. Just then the shoulder seam popped open, revealing blackened skin covered with coarse hair. His eyes stared blankly. The cowlick in front of his hair line stood defiantly upright.

 

Her first reaction was relief. Maybe the shame of their encounter could finally begin to heal. She thought of her husband waiting up for her that night. He could see something was wrong. “What happened?” he asked. The intense, forbidden excitement had been followed by profound emptiness, darkness, a deep well of self-loathing. What have I done, she asked herself over and over. She looked at him and said, “Nothing.”

 

She turned away from Pang’s body, disgusted. The cut on her hand throbbed, so she pressed her other palm against it.

 

Bang, bang, bang!

 

Carol jumped at the pounding on the door. Several men in full battle gear stood looking at her through the window. The laser pointer from one of the machine guns shone through the window and was fixed on her chest. She turned slowly, raising her hands, “I’m not armed.”

 

“Stay back!” one of them commanded, his voice muffled by the thick door and his breathing apparatus. This was followed in rapid succession by, “Breaching door!” and then, “Clear!” and then an explosion. The door flung open as the charge detonated, filling the lab with smoke.

 

She collapsed down into a ball, squatting on the balls of her feet, arms clasped over her head. Glancing back through the acrid smoke she saw a soldier standing inside the lab with a machine gun pointed at her. The muzzle looked enormous and lethal. Heart pounding, mouth dry, she froze.

 

Suddenly, she heard a guttural noise behind her. The soldier screamed, “Stay down!”

 

She turned to see Pang’s reanimated body standing, glaring at her with bloodshot eyes. The hostility in his gaze, the utter hate, was terrifying. She tasted acid in the back of her mouth and a liquid emptiness in her stomach.

 

The laser sight flew from her chest to Pang’s. Three quick shots, pop pop pop, penetrated him in a tight cluster, right above his heart. His body flew backwards, skidding to a halt next to the monkey.

 

Now in shock, mouth agape, Carol looked back at the soldier. Two lasers were centered on her heart. Pop pop pop. She was dead before she hit the floor.

 

“Sergeant Bryant, bag the bodies, including the monkey, and burn the lab. Bring the bodies to the quarantine morgue,” said Artemis.

 

“Roger that,” replied the sergeant.

 

It took approximately seventy eight hours before the first zombie escaped from the facility.

Probably all the times I lost control of myself and brought a ton of negativity to the world and the people around me.

I get so angry. So serious. So depressed. And I def got my reasons for why im so fucked up. But that doesn’t give me the right to pass off pain to the people I love.

But I do, that’s the truth. I take em for granted a lot of the time. I say hurtful things. I alienate myself. I project my insecurities and I project my hurt on people who want to help me.

I pull em in than push them away.

And idk what is wrong with me anymore. Idk how to control it. All I know is im wasting alot of time

US and EU imposed the harshest sanctions on Russia.

When US and EU companies pulled out of Russia as part of their sanctions, it faces shortages for a while. But it suffered none of the predictions of perditions.

Russia is not a desert. It is a country of chess masters with a history of 1,000 years. Before long, they were replaced by the domestics and investments from other countries, the most notable is China.

Russia’s trade with China grew at rapid rates. Likewise, its trade with India and many countries in Africa.

Its economy suffered a downturn for less than a year, and then returned to the growth path. In the last 2 years, it out-performed the EU economy and equaled the US.

This is notwithstanding the absence of US and EU investments, the Ukraine war, and all the sanctions it has to endure.

It went through an adjustment period. There are views that it has grown stronger. It manufactures more of its own things and reduces its dependency on the US and EU. Granted there are substantial war productions.

Current USA President can’t legally change the Laws of Canada, nor the regulations of NATO, nor the International Laws of the United Nations, and neither the Laws & Regulations of the Commonwealth of Nations.

Deep down, Trump and Putin should know that citizens of the World are NOT going to be BULLIED, BRAINWASHED, BLACKMAILED, SABOTAGED and FRAUDULENTLY CONNED into thinking that those DICTATORS could be considered to be compassionate, caring and kind human beings. They most definitely are NOT ! And those dictators and Presidents are pathetic excuses for FAILING miserably as HUMAN BEINGS !

They DO NOT CARE and NEVER WILL CARE about saving innocent women & children and civilian men, from being murdered in the current war zones in Ukraine and other wars around the World.

Many vulnerable Nations around the World are now upgrading and implementing the latest technologies in Military and Defence Systems.

Vulnerable countries are now ordering Military Weapons & Defence Systems from other Countries and NOT weapons from the USA nor from RUSSIA, in order to combat the escalated arrogance and aggression of what originally was meant to be a somewhat safer World for us to live in with the purpose of NATO’s Peace Keeping efforts.

Time is of the essence, and nobody is going to wait around for the next dangerous moves by the Putin-Trump-Musk International Crimes Syndicate.

NO NATION is going to put ANY trust whatsoever into those EVIL and BULLYING low-life murderers and imbecilic, dictating morons !

🇨🇦 LONG LIVE CANADA 🇨🇦

RAISING KIDS IN CHINA: A EUROPEAN DAD’S STORY

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The most puzzling problems can be solved with patience and perspective

Your question has no significance in most countries that have universal taxpayer supported healthcare. Cost is never an issue in Canada.

My cousin had a very rare form of cancer that was treated partly by an experimental drug developed in Australia.

Australian doctors joined in his treatment via the internet and supplied the experimental drug for free.

Meanwhile an oncology team in Denver USA were also experimenting with a drug for this type of cancer.

They offered their drug to my cousin for payment of many thousands of dollars.

He turned them down. He’s passed his 5 year survival some time ago.

Chinese Military Might vs Washington’s Asymmetrical Tools of Empire

Yes, and it now appears the problems are far worse than I’ve said up until now.

What I said up until now: apart from the Nazi, there are more fundamental problems that won’t go away by the Board firing him. Teslas are 20–30% more expensive than the competition, and the quality is worse than the competition.

I hadn’t realised how bad the quality issues are.

The Romanian brand Dacia is infamous for quality problems. As much as 13% of four year old cars don’t pass the annual inspection; they have developed faults that need to be repaired before they are allowed on the roads again.

With Tesla, it’s 20%. It’s totally without parallel. They don’t “have quality issues”, they’re junk.

And because of this, some dealerships no longer accept second hand Teslas. Purely due to poor quality. That’s also totally without parallel. I mean, sure, they’re not going to be too keen on accepting my 2006 Toyota as a trade-in, but it’s acquired a few dents and dings that’ll put a buyer off – although it still passes the annual inspection. But you’d imagine a 2020 Tesla to be something they could shift.

Currently, the dealerships that still take Teslas will offer you $20,000 for a 2020 that cost $70,000 new. (That’s not a basic model – those sell for just over $50,000 new.) This basically limits the market to those who can give away $10,000 per year, for no obvious benefit. BYD and KIA and MG are cheaper to buy new, and don’t depreciate to that extreme extent.

And independent experts still advise you that if you plan to sell your Tesla, do so now, because the prices are expected to drop even further. Teslas from car fleets of major corporations are going on the market soon – and they’re not buying new Teslas, mostly due to the quality concerns and the extreme cost of ownership. The Nazi image doesn’t help any – but Tesla is in major trouble even without him.

Sticker put under Tesla windshield wiper, Stockholm, Sweden: “Sell your Nazi car”

Potato Lefse (Norwegian)

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Ingredients

  • 3 cups cooled, mashed potatoes
  • 3 cups sifted all-purpose flour
  • 1 teaspoon salt
  • 1 tablespoon sugar
  • 2 tablespoons shortening or oil
  • 2 tablespoons cream

Instructions

  1. To the cooled, mashed potatoes, gradually add the remaining ingredients.
  2. Roll out 1 tablespoon at a time, using part of the 3 cups flour to keep from sticking. Roll thin.
  3. Bake lightly on both sides on a large griddle or any other flat surface.
  4. Cool on dish towel, keeping lefse separated from one another.
  5. To serve, spread with butter and sugar and roll.
  6. Keep fresh by rolling in a towel.

Over 30 years ago, my friend M asked me to check part of some writer’s handwritten manuscript. She figured that my writing and editing experience would be worthwhile. I did so but it was slower going than I’d anticipated. Dense writing and poor grammar.

Apparently, the writer was so appreciative that M then asked if I could read through the whole manuscript. She even had the whole handwritten thing waiting for me in a bag or folder! I took a look and said that I wouldn’t do this unless I was being paid a decent fee. She tried to persuade me to take on this task, since the topic was so important (it wasn’t) and his writing was good (it wasn’t). I had to be very frank and tell her that it was poorly written and I wasn’t doing a charity case edit session.

She nagged me a few times and I always had to make a real show of NO.

Pour Me Out

Submitted into Contest #287 in response to: Write a story with a character pouring out their emotions. view prompt

L.A. Rogers

My old TV bathed the living room in pale blue light as advertisements interrupted a particularly tense hand of the professional poker tournament.Not that I particularly cared for poker. I didn’t care for particularly anything these days. None the less, I made a game out of the commercials. Every time it was a commercial for a medicine, a lawyer, or a politician, I took a drink. When the poker tournament came back, there was one swig left in my bottle.My leg bounced and skin crawled, anxiety and loneliness creeping in. What kind of sad sack does this, sits alone in the dead of night and watches poker? The tournament faded to black once more and I found myself almost excited to play my game. But the single commercial that ran this break was different. The only sound for a good ten seconds was the low, metallic hum of a singing bowl before the screen lit up with a carousel of relaxing blue and white images.A telephone number flashed on the bottom of the screen, the ostentatious red numbers markedly out of place amongst the serene imagery of beautiful women in bathrobes, preparing for massages and trickling creeks and waterfalls. The narrator’s voice chanted the number as if it were a prayer — calm, welcoming. They promised help, clarity, a different way forward in your god-awful, miserable life. Their logo, a line-drawn lotus flower with swirls pouring out of it faded from screen, replaced by the poker players.Well, that counted as a medicine commercial, I decided. I gulped down the last of the whiskey straight from the handle and discarded the bottle on the floor with the other dozen or so littering the carpet. I should really clean all of that up. Probably. Maybe. But who cares? Who am I trying to impress anyway? No one. I was alone. The people I loved left me and the unyielding ache in my chest would never go away no matter how I tried to drown it.I pushed myself from the couch and the room spun. I wobbled, but managed to stay upright this time. Even inebriated, I knew I wouldn’t be able to manage a trip to the corner to grab another bottle of the good stuff.Lucky for me, Charley left a bottle of tequila here when she packed up and left me last week. The day before the five year anniversary of my father’s death. Said I had problems, that I didn’t process my feelings in a healthy way. Bitch.Now where was it again? On the fridge? In the pantry? Either way, it meant a trip to the kitchen.Suppressing the wave of nausea that moving my body created, I reached for my telephone and punched in the phone number still chanting in my head. I don’t know why, really. I wasn’t interested in “a different way forward”. I was interested in getting and staying very drunk.The other line rang once, and before my slow fingers could hang up, the call tree menu started up.“Thank you for contacting Atraxia Wellness: Clear your mind. Reset your life. Please listen to the following menu options…” a pleasant, though obviously robotic, voice chimed through the speaker. I reached for the tequila and a mug, cradling the phone between my shoulder and ear. I don’t know why, but I felt almost guilty for thinking about hanging up.

My hands were trembling, so tequila sloshed partly into my mug but mostly on my counter as the voice continued. “For inquires about spa packages, press one. For our intravenous refresh, press four. For outdoor wellness retreats, press seven.” They had more options than I’d ever heard. Even sober I wouldn’t be able to keep them straight.

I threw back my shot of tequila. “For information on the Pour Out Procedure, press zero,” the voice said.

Wasn’t that the one on the television? That seemed right. I don’t remember them saying anything about veins or hikes or yoga or…

I jammed my finger into the zero. “Please wait while I connect you,” the pleasant robot said.

The hold music— or hold nature sounds, I suppose— blared in my ear as I abandoned my mug and brought the whole bottle of liquor to the couch with me. Glorious, wonderful, drunken oblivion was only a few sips away.

My goal for the past several days had been to get absolutely plastered and forget every single bad thing that ever happened to me. Charley leaving, my father dying, losing my childhood golden retriever Rex, breaking my leg at soccer as a kid. None of it registered, none of it ached like a bruise, when oblivion finally found me.

I’m happy to say that I’ve been managing to meet my goals the past three nights. Just call me an overachiever.

The nature sounds in my ear stopped abruptly. “Thank you for calling Atraxia Wellness, my name is Xander, how may I guide your wellness journey?”

Oh, brother. How may I guide your wellness journey? Really? I should just hang up. “Hi Xander, I’m Lowen? I wanted more information on the Pour Out Procedure?” My words slurred together, and what the hell was happening to me? Why was every sentence a goddamn question? Why wouldn’t I just hang up?

“Ah, great! I can definitely help you with that!” Xander laughed. I belched. “Lucky for you we have a consultation for the procedure available tomorrow. Would that work for you?” He was too chipper given the late hour.

“Let me look at my schedule,” I tipped the bottle back for a quick sip, sweet release inching closer. My job and I recently parted ways. I knew I was free. “Yeahthat’llwork.” I hoped I sounded eager and not intoxicated.

Xander gave me the address to the wellness center. What did wellness center even mean, anyway? “I’ll see you tomorrow at 9 A.M!” The line went dead.

As my phone app closed, the time on my phone’s screen shone bright. It was 2 A.M. I knocked back the last bit of tequila in one, two, three large gulps and finally fell into the quiet darkness. And though I knew all this would do is blur some of the pain, put some distance between myself and my godforsaken feelings, that was enough for tonight.

 

The bus driver shot me one of those no-lip, sympathetic smiles as I darted through the half-open bus doors. I was fifteen minutes late, but I made it, and that’s what counts. Besides, there was a certain rush, exhilaration, excitement, to showing up winded by the run from the bus stop.

Atraxia Wellness Center was an enormous steel, stone, and glass box with an impeccably landscaped front garden and not one, not two, but three water features on the walkway leading to the front entrance. I gulped, nerves rising. I was a grubby mess that smelled like a liquor cabinet, still slightly drunk from the night before. There was no way I wasn’t going to draw attention.

The doors swung open and a tall, sculpted man in a white polo shirt greeted me. “Lowen, welcome! I’m Xander. It’s great to meet you in person,” he smiled, the expression not quite meeting his eyes, and ushered me inside.

“Hi,” I waved like a child. My cheeks flushed, thumb picking at the pad of pointer finger. Was I really such an inept idiot? Good god.

“If you’d follow me, I’ll take you to the consultation chamber.” He turned on his heel and began walking toward a bank of elevators.

Still slightly buzzed, I couldn’t contain my chortle, but I still followed close behind him. “Consultation chamber. Really?”

He pressed the call button and the metallic tube buzzed to life. “We take ourselves and our work very seriously at Atraxia. We are all about Clearing Minds and Resetting Lives here.”

There was no malice in Xander’s voice, no anything. He was simply stating a fact. Shame coursed through me, cold and sharp. I stared at my tattered shoes until finally, the elevator chimed and we descended into the heart of Atraxia Wellness.

The consultation chamber, as it turns out, was a lot like a therapist’s office. There was inoffensive patterned wallpaper, plush armchairs, and an end table holding tissues and a dish of hard candy. Across from that setup there was a sleek marble desk. It seemed out of place in the inviting space.

As I sat in one of the arm chairs, Xander closed the door and went to sit behind the desk. The nape of my neck prickled. It was worrying that the man that talked to me on the phone, as a result of me calling a number from a poker tournament commercial, was also the man that was going to talk me through a complicated medical procedure. It’s not just my buzz telling me that’s weird, it’s every fiber of my being.

Instead of running out of the “chamber” I folded my hands in my lap.

Xander smiled the same dead-eyed smile from the door. “The Pour Out Procedure is the latest advancement in well-being services here at Atraxia,” he started the moment our eyes met.

I nodded for him to proceed.

“Before I tell you more, I have a question for you, Lowen. Remember, this is a safe space,” he made some gentle gesture with his hands. “What’s the worst pain you’ve ever felt?”

I blanched. “You’re serious?”

He nodded, so I continued. Fuck it, right? What do I have to lose? “Um, I guess losing my father was really bad. I didn’t eat for a week because I couldn’t stomach the turmoil. But that was five years ago now. And I… well my partner left just a week ago and I thought we would be together forever. That hurt, too. She made it seem like it was my own fault things were ending. I didn’t know I could be that angry and confused,” my voice was thick, tears teetering at the corner of my eyes.

Xander floated over to me and perched on the arm of my chair. His voice was gentle, kind, as he spoke. “One hundred percent of people that come into this room, that have this consultation, mention some kind of emotional pain when I ask them that question.”

Tears rolled down my cheeks, fast and warm. Xander reached around my shoulders and handed me the box of tissues. “Now, Lowen, what if I told you the Pour Out Procedure could get rid of all of that pain forever?”

“I would say you’re lying,” but hoping you aren’t, I thought.

His laugh was smooth. “Emotional pain is the one thing standing between you and individual wellness. Emotions, good and bad, are the greatest barrier anyone faces to achieving clarity and starting their life fresh. Do you want to start your life fresh?”

“Good and bad?” Did I hear him right? That seems like a steep price to pay.

“Yes, the Procedure removes all emotions. But Lowen, look at yourself – are those good feelings doing anything for you right here, right now? Can you even access them through all this grief and pain? I am promising you a life with no more crushing defeat, bitter disappointment, or missed opportunities at happiness. Is that not worth it?” He procured a clipboard, sliding it onto my lap.

An inhuman sob ripped from my chest and my shoulders sagged with the weight of my choice.

 

An hour after I signed Xander’s clipboard, I was in Atraxia-branded white scrubs waiting to be called into the operating theater. Xander insisted that I call it a theater and not a room. My teeth chattered in anticipation. Or maybe in panic. Or maybe just an excess of adrenaline in my blood. Maybe it didn’t matter anymore.

A hidden door in the shiny white wall cracked open and a women in colorless medical garb stepped into the waiting room. Only her eyes were visible, but they reminded me of Charley’s, clear and blue and bright. I would miss those eyes, their kindness, their caring. I laughed at myself. No, actually. I wouldn’t.

The woman cleared her throat. “We’re ready for you, Lowen.”

I shot from my chair, finally sober enough for the room to not spin and followed her into the next room.

Every surface practically glowed, the sterile white tile reflecting the blue fluorescent light. I squinted as the other figures in the room refocused. It smelled strangely floral and not in the least bit sterile. In the center of the room there was a silver contraption that looked like a dentist’s chair with a nylon strap on the headrest.

Xander explained when I signed the paperwork that I would be awake through the procedure, that it’s necessary to remain conscious to make sure the procedure is working.

“Hey, Lowen,” Xander greeted me, stepping away from the small group of Atraxians. “Are you ready to reset your life?”

I rolled my eyes. So corny. I just needed all of this suffering to end. I didn’t care about resetting, I only knew that carrying on with the burden of feeling was not an option. I nodded and Xander escorted me to the weird dentist’s chair.

He strapped my head in. Instinctively, I tried to wriggle my way free, but then the rest of the team descended, strapping down my arms and legs. A needle pricked my bicep and the urge to break free disappeared.

“Take a deep breath, Lowen,” said a voice I didn’t recognize, but I obeyed. “Good,” they praised.

The praise felt good, warming my chest. The chair whirred and I tipped backward.

Then, it started.

A cold wave of grief washed over me, numbing my hands, my feet. It was like nothing I’d ever felt before. I was being hollowed from the inside out. Every memory, every thought, tinged by loss, by the gravity of despair flashed before me. The room lurched and tears blurred my view of the blank ceiling. I was falling into an endless black pit and there was no turning back. I started shaking, reliving every one of my most miserable moments, some of which I buried away, forgotten from years gone by.

It felt like it would never end, time stretched on and on and on, until finally a voice sounded behind me. “Lowen, can you tell us about your father?”

“He died of a heart attack five years and one week ago. His name was John, he was a teacher,” I recited, my voice flat. I knew that this should stir something in me, but it didn’t. It couldn’t, no matter how it tried to tug at the feeling. My hands began to tremble and I whimpered. “What-”

“Next,” someone said.

This time, the sensation was searing, like fire cascading across my entire body. My stomach turned and I retched. Gasping for air, I tried to break my arms from their binding but it was no use. I was crushed beneath the weight of the unknown, the uncertain, the unimaginable. Hot tears spilled from my eyes and would not stop. I wanted to claw my skin off, be free of the sinking worry until, finally and suddenly, it relented.

“Lowen, how do you feel about your drinking?”

“I drink too much, and it would probably be better for my health if I tried to limit my intake.” My voice was so matter-of-fact that it was amusing. I laughed hysterically. How ridiculous was that?

“Almost there, Lowen.”

A pleasant warmth, like a hug, enveloped me. My skin twitched and vibrated with pleasure, excitement. The corners of my mouth pulled toward my eyes and the blurriness of my vision disappeared. There was a woman, Charley, clouding my mind’s eye. Her eyes were a clear blue and the memory of her smiled at me. Then, it tunneled away, eventually dispersing like paint in water.

Everything went black.

A shoulder shake roused me. I was no longer in the operating theater. Instead, I was on a soft bed surrounded by plush pillows. Xander smiled at me. He was holding a clear beaker filled with liquid.

“Hello, Lowen. I have one more question for you. Do you know what this is?” He placed the beaker in my hand.

I held it in my eye line, examining it from many angles. “It’s my extracted emotions. There are many colors, the most prominent of which is gold,” I paused, trying to remember what my paperwork said about the different colors. “This indicates that majority of my experienced emotions until the Pour Our Procedure were positive, like happiness, love, and amusement.”

The liquid swirled, thick and viscous. “There are also a few spots of midnight blue, indicating negative experienced emotions like grief, anxiety, and depression, but not enough to overwhelm the gold.”

Xander smiled. “Very good. You’re ready to pour them out. Follow me.”

He led me down a well-lit hallway to a large room. In the center of the room, there was a large pit, dark and deep. Around the pit were others dressed the same as me — white Atraxia Wellness scrubs holding beakers filled with once-felt emotions that would never be felt again. I couldn’t help but think about what might have happened if each one of us had found each other before we found Atraxia.

We all stepped toward the pit together. My heart was beating fast, circulating the blood I needed to operate my legs and arms. Peering into the darkness, I saw a pool of gold liquid.

Clear your mind.

I dumped the contents of my beaker into the chasm.

Reset your life.

I went to an ER once with a gyn problem (that was treated). I was billed for “respiratory therapy!” When I called billing, they told me that I had gotten this therapy. I said, “did you LOOK at the dx and the procedure the doctor did in the ER?” Why would I have needed respiratory therapy for that? The charge was removed.

In my opinion, it is important for every patient to get an ITEMIZED statement with every single charge that is on your bill. Hospitals don’t usually do this unless you insist. It isn’t uncommon for a hospital to charge you for medications you never received because the doctor ordered them, for procedures you never had, for lab tests you never had etc. I was once charged for 2 services (at a physical rehab facility) that occurred at the VERY SAME TIME of day. I couldn’t be in two places at once working with two different therapists. I had the charge removed. Every statement I got from that facility I had to go over and have charges removed. And the best thing was the pre-assessment, which made sense so they could work on the physical needs I had, but the “post-assessment” was for their research. I had finished the program. I asked the doctor, “what is the benefit to me of having you do the post assessment?” He answered, “none.” And yet it was common practice to do the post-assessment and charge insurance companies for it, even though there was no benefit whatsoever to the patient. Lots of fraud there.

UPDATE: The Euro Has Fallen, Trade War Emergency Plan, China U.S. Bombshell – What Next?

There are, here’s a short list:

1) This is the city of Limone sul Garda.

In addition to being a tourist destination, the city hides a secret: many of its inhabitants can eat whatever they want, including foods full of saturated fats and cholesterol, without having any health problems. This is due to a superprotein present in their blood that allows them to eliminate cholesterol very quickly. It seems that in the 18th century, a local farmer was born with a mutated gene and passed it on to his descendants. Today, this protein called Apo A-1 Milano is studied by researchers who hope to derive a drug from it against hypercholesterolemia and other diseases.

2) Look at this boy:

His name is Denis Vashurin and he looks like a normal boy; in reality he is a 32-year-old man but he looks like a 13-year-old. For unknown reasons his body stopped aging when he was 13; as a child his body grew more slowly than others until it stopped at puberty. An enviable condition but he complains about the police officers who constantly stop him while driving because they think his license is fake or that he can’t get into nightclubs. Personally I wouldn’t care about this and would gladly trade. Denis is not the only one to “suffer” from this pathology: even the former model Chuando Tan originally from Singapore stopped aging more than 40 years ago, when he was the most sought-after Asian model.

Today he is well over 50 years old but still looks like a 25 year old to the point that many consider him a vampire 😄.

3) Look at this other guy.

He suffers from a particular pathology: his body does not produce the myostatin inhibitor. We all produce myostatin, a muscle growth factor, but to prevent the muscles from growing too much, its inhibitor intervenes and blocks its action. In these subjects the inhibitor is not present or is present in small quantities. For this reason their body does not produce and accumulate fat and allows them to have a lean physique even without the gym. I challenge anyone not to wish to have this “problem”.

4) Meet Abushe, a 12 year old Ethiopian boy (8 at the time of the photo).

He suffers from a rare disease called Waademburg syndrome that causes a particular pigmentation of the eyes, hair and skin as well as congenital deafness. Fortunately for Abushe, the disease has not made him deaf but his life is not easy: his family is poor and given the color of his eyes he is considered cursed and avoided by everyone. It seems strange to us but in Africa those born with light eyes are considered cursed or a demon. Deafness aside, many would certainly like to have eyes like that.

Sir Whiskerton and the Time-Traveling Hay Bale: A Tale of Riddles, Confusion, and Living in the Moment

Ah, dear reader, prepare yourself for a tale of temporal tomfoolery, cryptic hay bales, and one very determined cat who saved the farm from a future-focused fiasco. Today’s story is one of mystery, misinterpretation, and the importance of living in the present. So, grab your time-traveling hat (or a sturdy hay bale, if you must), as we dive into Sir Whiskerton and the Time-Traveling Hay Bale: A Tale of Riddles, Confusion, and Living in the Moment.


Slow Bob’s Wish

It all began on a quiet afternoon, just as the farm was basking in the golden glow of the setting sun. The animals were gathered in the barnyard, enjoying the peaceful atmosphere. Slow Bob the Turtle, the farm’s resident philosopher and time-travel enthusiast, was deep in thought, his shell glinting in the fading light.

“I wish I could see the future,” Slow Bob mused, his voice slow and deliberate. “To know what lies ahead… it would be fascinating.”

The animals exchanged curious glances. “The future?” Doris the Hen squawked, flapping her wings. “Why would you want to see the future? The present is clucking enough!”

“Clucking!” Harriet echoed, tilting her head.

“Present!” Lillian added, fainting dramatically onto a pile of hay.

Sir Whiskerton, perched on the barn roof, flicked his tail with interest. “The future, you say? A curious wish indeed. But be careful what you wish for, Slow Bob. The future is a mysterious and unpredictable place.”

Slow Bob nodded, his eyes filled with determination. “I understand, Sir Whiskerton. But still, I can’t help but wonder…”

Just then, Zephyr the Genie, the farm’s groovy and enigmatic magical being, floated into view. His psychedelic robes shimmered in the sunlight, and his round tinted glasses gave him an air of cosmic wisdom.

“Did someone say ‘future’?” Zephyr asked, his voice smooth and melodic. “Because I’ve got just the thing.”

Before anyone could respond, Zephyr waved his hand, and a nearby hay bale began to glow with an otherworldly light. The animals gasped as the hay bale floated into the air, spinning slowly before landing back on the ground with a soft thud.

“There you go,” Zephyr said, grinning. “A time-traveling hay bale. It’s seen the future, and it’s here to share its wisdom.”

The animals stared at the hay bale, their eyes wide with confusion. “A… hay bale?” Rufus the Dog barked, tilting his head. “How is a hay bale supposed to tell us about the future?”

Zephyr chuckled. “Oh, you’ll see. Just ask it a question, and it’ll answer in riddles. It’s all very mystical.”

Slow Bob’s eyes lit up with excitement. “Thank you, Zephyr! This is exactly what I wanted.”

Sir Whiskerton, however, remained skeptical. “A time-traveling hay bale? This is most unusual. But I suppose we shall see what wisdom it has to offer.”


The Hay Bale’s Cryptic Advice

The animals gathered around the hay bale, their curiosity piqued. Slow Bob was the first to speak. “Oh, wise hay bale, what does the future hold for me?”

The hay bale remained silent for a moment before speaking in a deep, resonant voice. “The shell that carries you will guide you, but the path you seek lies within.”

The animals gasped, their eyes wide with awe. “Did… did the hay bale just talk?” Porkchop the Pig asked, his snout twitching.

“Talk!” Harriet echoed, tilting her head.

“Hay bale!” Lillian added, fainting dramatically onto a pile of hay.

Sir Whiskerton adjusted his monocle, his tail flicking with intrigue. “Fascinating. The hay bale speaks in riddles. Let us see if we can decipher its meaning.”

Doris the Hen stepped forward, her feathers fluffed with excitement. “Oh, wise hay bale, what does the future hold for me?”

The hay bale’s voice echoed through the barnyard. “The eggs you lay will hatch, but the seeds you sow will grow.”

Doris blinked, her beak opening and closing in confusion. “What does that even mean?!”

Rufus the Dog wagged his tail. “My turn! Oh, wise hay bale, what does the future hold for me?”

The hay bale’s voice boomed once more. “The tail that wags will lead you, but the path you follow will test you.”

Rufus tilted his head, his ears drooping. “Uh… okay? I guess I’ll just keep wagging, then.”

Bessie the Tie-Dye Cow mooed softly. “Oh, wise hay bale, what does the future hold for me?”

The hay bale’s voice was calm and soothing. “The colors you wear will fade, but the love you share will remain.”

Bessie smiled, her mood ring glowing with contentment. “That’s actually kind of nice.”

Sir Whiskerton stepped forward, his tail flicking with determination. “Hay bale, what does the future hold for the farm?”

The hay bale’s voice was deep and resonant. “The sun will rise, the sun will set, but the choices you make will shape your fate.”

The animals exchanged puzzled glances. “What does that even mean?” Porkchop asked, scratching his head.

“Mean!” Harriet echoed, tilting her head.

“Fate!” Lillian added, fainting dramatically onto a pile of hay.

Sir Whiskerton sighed, his tail flicking with frustration. “The hay bale’s advice is cryptic, to say the least. But perhaps there is wisdom in its words, if we can decipher them.”


The Farm in Chaos

As the animals tried to interpret the hay bale’s riddles, chaos erupted on the farm. Doris, convinced that the hay bale’s advice meant she needed to lay more eggs, began frantically nesting in every corner of the barnyard. Rufus, believing that wagging his tail would lead him to his destiny, spun in circles until he was too dizzy to stand. Bessie, inspired by the hay bale’s words about love, started hugging everyone she met, much to the confusion of the other animals.

Even Slow Bob, who had wished to see the future, was now more confused than ever. “The shell that carries me will guide me?” he muttered, pacing back and forth. “But what does that mean?!”

Sir Whiskerton, observing the chaos from the barn roof, knew it was time to intervene. “This has gone far enough,” he said, leaping down to the ground. “The hay bale’s riddles have caused nothing but confusion. We must put an end to this before the farm descends into madness.”


Sir Whiskerton’s Solution

Sir Whiskerton approached the hay bale, his tail flicking with determination. “Hay bale,” he said, his voice calm but firm, “your riddles have caused chaos on the farm. It’s time to reveal the truth. What is the meaning of your advice?”

The hay bale remained silent for a moment before speaking in its deep, resonant voice. “The future is uncertain, but the present is clear. Focus on what is here.”

Sir Whiskerton’s eyes widened with understanding. “Of course. The hay bale’s advice is not about the future—it’s about the present. We’ve been so focused on deciphering its riddles that we’ve forgotten to live in the moment.”

The animals stared at Sir Whiskerton, their eyes filled with realization. “So… the hay bale was telling us to focus on the present all along?” Doris asked, her feathers drooping.

“Present!” Harriet echoed, tilting her head.

“Focus!” Lillian added, fainting dramatically onto a pile of hay.

Sir Whiskerton nodded. “Precisely. The future is uncertain, and it’s better to focus on the present. The hay bale’s riddles were meant to remind us of that.”

Slow Bob sighed, his shell sagging with relief. “I see now. I was so focused on the future that I forgot to appreciate the present. Thank you, Sir Whiskerton, for helping me understand.”

Sir Whiskerton smiled, his tail flicking with satisfaction. “You’re welcome, Slow Bob. Remember, the world is full of mysteries, but the most important thing is to live in the moment.”


The Moral of the Story

As the farm returned to normal, the animals reflected on the day’s events.

The moral of the story, dear reader, is this: The future is uncertain, and it’s better to focus on the present. While it’s natural to wonder what lies ahead, the most important thing is to appreciate the here and now. The hay bale’s riddles may have caused confusion, but they also reminded the animals to live in the moment and cherish the world around them. And through it all, Sir Whiskerton’s wisdom reminded everyone that even the most puzzling problems can be solved with patience and perspective.


A Happy Ending

With the hay bale’s wisdom understood and the farm back to normal, the animals gathered for a celebratory feast. Slow Bob, now content to live in the present, shared stories of his time-traveling adventures, while Zephyr floated nearby, his groovy robes shimmering in the moonlight.

As the sun set over the farm, the animals laughed and chatted, their bond stronger than ever. Sir Whiskerton lounged on his favorite sunbeam, content in the knowledge that he had once again saved the day. 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 lessons, and the enduring importance of living in the moment. Until next time, may your days be filled with laughter, love, and just a little bit of feline genius.

The End.

When I was very little I wanted to teach science to kids.

When I went to school I was an art major until my family made fun of me for that.

My mother and brother told me I would be poor my entire life if I tried to be an artist.

So I stopped doing that. When my car died and I needed money my boss at my part time job told me to join the union.

And I suddenly qualified for a car loan. So I stayed in the union until I qualified to be a pharmacy technician then I started getting apprentices and teaching them to do the job.

After around 5 years in the field I realized that I was a science teacher. Not in the traditional way but I was still teaching science.

Full circle.

I’m very fulfilled by my job. I help people everyday. That’s important to me. I feel better about myself when I’m taking care of other people. It’s also why I answer questions on Quora.

I don’t think my experience is better than anyone elses or that I’m one of the smartest people on here but if I feel like I can help someone then I want to do that. Sometimes it’s just because I’m an old lady who’s lived a lot of life and I might have a point of view that no one else has.

Feel free to ignore my advice.

Unless I tell you to talk to your doctor. I don’t kid about that ever. GO TO THE DOCTOR, BE HONEST WITH THEM. FOLLOW THEIR ADVICE. Seriously if you feel like asking healthcare questions to strangers on the Internet then get some money together and get your ass to a doctor.

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The word “power” is vague. China is already the largest economy in the world since 2016, measured by PPP, without Trump’s or Biden’s help. Does that count? China has been advancing in military technology and size rapidly with superiority over the US in some areas. Does that count? Or quality of life and life expectancy, which China has been leading already? There are many ways to define power depending on individual perspective. Crime and poverty rates seems to be a more interesting metrics, IMHO, and they are both near zero in China.

Based on my observations, China seems to be on its own unique path and focused on comparing with its own past only, not with the US or any other countries. They like to keep a low profile and probably don’t care to be the world power of any kind. There is a Chinese proverb that says “men dreading fame is like hog dreading weight gain” because the fatter the hog gets the closer it is to the slaughter house. Another proverb says, “the bigger tree endures more wind”.

Hocon Gas, Norwalk CT.

Starting in 1979, my father began ordering half a dozen 200 gallon propane cylinders for the St. Ann Club Pizza tent at the Norwalk Oyster festival. These cylinders were rented & delivered to the site at Veterans Park. The temporary gas lines were installed for the two dozen stoves, and the festival ran it’s three days. The tanks were picked up in the days following the conclusion. All the temporary fittings became the property of the club because Hocon does not take any of it that stuff back. Everything was paid in full each year weeks before the festival as per contract.

About ten years later (the fall ‘90) when it came time for my first *REFILL* of the tank I paid Hocon to install at my house, I got a bill for $6,000 for rental tanks.

Naturally I asked what rentals as I had *PURCHASED* the 100 lb tank at my house. I asked to speak to my father’s friend, (the owner) which surprised the woman on the phone. She would not put me through. But she did try to tell me that I owed them for 60 (SIXTY) 200 gallon tanks. I was stunned. I asked here when & where the tanks were delivered. Then I asked her how & why I could be responsible for the paid liability of a club that I was not even a member of?

The conversation deteriorated from there. She was adamant that I owed the fees. I kept laughing at her and the ridiculousness of the bill. She threatened to repossess my (purchased) tank. I told her that would be theft and I would press charges.

Eventually I did speak to the son of the owner. At first he tried to strong arm me. Eventually he did managed to put 2 & 2 together and reluctantly admitted that the new bookkeeping system (a system he championed to his father) may have made an error. Gee, ya think?

They finally did correct the problem, but they also tried to charge me a $50 surcharge for customer supplied equipment. Which prompted another call, because the equipment was *bought* from them specifically to avoid that $50/delivery fee.

I stayed with them for a few more cycles, but they raised their rate way above market, and then got fired. Suburban propane was OK at first, but they screwed the pooch with a few years. They could not figure out which of their satellites I belonged to. One time they sent three trucks over the spam of one week, and tried to charge me for two unnecessary / emergency dispatches.

I think these morons all sniff the gas and it rots their brains!

I was with NYPD, so I heard it a lot. I learned to hide the face that went, “Yes, and who gives a shit?” Because that was my attitude. If you were a homeless bum, bleeding profusely, you took precedence. Even if my car was blocking some “Do you know who I am” idjit. (The worst were the wives of Dr. or Judge “Do you know who I am?” They didn’t know who they were, but loved flinging it around. I even got Mrs “I’ll have your job!”, more than once.) I left, of my own accord, when a job that didn’t include putting my life on the line came along. Nothing to do with having to put up with idjits, though.

Time Travelers Photography – open from 11am to 4pm

Submitted into Contest #287 in response to: Start or end your story with a character making a cup of tea for themself or someone else. view prompt

Euan Brennan

Arthur placed the cup of tea on the table. It was the porcelain cup with the floral pattern which we usually stored in the glass cabinet to spruce up the place for whenever unbearable guests visited. Now it was here filled with hot water, milk, one sugar, and ground tea leaves.“This isn’t happening,” I groaned.“Do you not love my tea?” Arthur displayed theatrics equivalent to a wounded and dying thespian.I flicked the cup (but only lightly because it was damn expensive). “What is it you’re after this time?”The last – shall we say, under the table? – business request, five months ago, came from an anonymous source. It turned out to be Barry from the bank the next street over, but that’s side-tracking a bit. Barry had asked our business – Arthur, in particular – if we could acquire for him a paintbrush used on the Mona Lisa. A job of that caliber requires skill, precision, and finesse. It had been fine at first, until Arthur said “Hey, nice beard, Leonardo” like they were best friends. Stealth, it seemed, was not Arthur’s forte when it came to someone having magnificent facial hair.Nothing had changed in present day, except maybe there were more Italians with beards. The results could have been severe. Luck favored our business that day, and it wasn’t one I was going to repeat, even for a million dollars. No way. Never.“Barry is offering two million dollars,” said Arthur.I drank the tea. “What’s the job?”Arthur pulled out a notepad. “Battle of Hastings. Anglo-Saxon shield. And he wants us to take a couple pictures of the thing. Specifically, the charge down the hill when they, er, you know.”“Lost?”“Yeah. And he wants a spear or two, and a Norman shield. Sounds like a cinch.”

There was no cinch to time travel. Oh, sure, you had the ability to hurl yourself to a specific date and location. But what good was that when you were having a heart attack after every twig you stepped on? Nuts to it, I say. Nuts, nuts, and money.

Two million dollars cascaded itself over my mind; when I was in the shower, the money was the water. When I was bleeding out, the money was my blood. It wasn’t my fault I could time travel, and nor was it my fault that we were using it in a surreptitious manner for financial gain. We were doing what anyone would do, or at least what someone would do, and that made it righteous and, dare I say, just.

“Grab the camera,” I said. “I’ll grab the cloaks.”

No matter the century, fashion never stayed the same. Why couldn’t everyone wear the same thing for all eternity? We had discovered a grey cloth covering our person acted as the best cover for our work, as it made us look like poor old mendicants (and it saved on money buying the correct clothes for each era, yadda, yadda, yadda).

“Kathleen,” Arthur’s voice called from across the hall. He trotted up to me. “I think the camera’s broken.”

He showed me the blank screen. I popped the cap off the lens and the screen captured our floor.

“Wonderful,” he said. “You should stop putting that on. It makes me look like a big idiot.”

I rolled my eyes and laughed. Our usual business was photography. Historical photography. Time Travelers Photography was a respectable business, there couldn’t be any doubt. We went back to landmarks in time, in secret, to obtain the perfect pictures our clients asked for. They always played the “Wow, how did you get this?” card when we handed them the photos. That’s how I liked it.

However, there was always the odd customer who saw through our clever and cunning ruse. Barry the banker being one of them. They asked for a little more than just pictures. We knew they couldn’t snitch on us to the authorities, because then they’d lose their only source of historical artifacts. People always saw money above everything else. The fools.

“Let’s hit the road,” I said. “Or the, um, time.”

I flipped the cloak around my shoulders and wrapped my belly with the fraying fabric. I held out my hand. Arthur took it, and we counted to three.

On three, we were in England. Northwest of the town of Hastings in the year 1066, to be more accurate. A place filled with Anglo-Saxon sweat, and Norman perspiration. We had chosen a place close to the action: Senlac Hill. Perhaps too close, as we watched the Anglo-Saxon army a few feet in front of us tower the Normans below. At our side, a horse brayed. It was a shame it wasn’t a horse without a rider, because the rider stared at us with deep, penetrating eyes.

We smiled. He didn’t. My knowledge of history was decent (it had to be in this line of work, and I realized we should have done a bit more research before diving in), and I had seen many artworks depicting certain historical figures. King Harold Godwinson, the leader of the Anglo-Saxons, was a big man. Bigger on a horse than, say, on the ground.

“Say ‘cheese’,” said Arthur, snapping a not-so-furtive photo of Harold II.

“Normans?!” said Harold in disgusted surprise. His accent wasn’t like any of the modern-day English accents.

“No,” said Arthur, pointing to himself and me. “Americans.”

I dragged him back, sending my knee somewhere deep into a carrot and two sprouts.

I cleared my throat, recalled all the acting classes I had taken (none), and harnessed my latent acting ability (non-existent).

“Please, my lord,” I cried. “We are humble peasants thrown at your mercy. We lost ourselves on the long trek after our home was raided by Norman brigands. We have nothing, but we’ll fight for you. With a shield and spear, we’ll die for you.”

Harold grunted. He yelled for weapons and shields. My superb acting had worked, not to anyone’s surprise.

“Now we just need a Norman shield,” I whispered to Arthur as we lined up towards the back of the nearest platoon. The rounded shields were umbrellas in front of us; the mud a disgrace to our shoes.

“And the pictures,” Arthur pointed out.

“You took a picture of the leader of the Anglo-Saxons and told him to say cheese. I think that’s good enough. Unless you want to take one when the arrow goes through his head, but I’ll leave that up to you.”

We decided to separate ourselves from the inevitable battle and hide somewhere safe in the encampment before the army charged down the hill and lost their advantage. Why they had made that decision, I’ll never know. It had to be a stupid leader to order his army to charge in and die.

“Hey, you know,” Arthur’s voice caught the wind. He was no longer at my side, but beside Harold’s horse. “I think you could take them. The Normans. If you charged down there, they’d be caught by surprise and flail about the place. It would be like shooting fish in a barrel.”

I slapped my face. They had barrels, sure, and they had fish. But the guns would be missing for a while yet. But that was beside the point. He had just initiated a horrible sequence of events which would unfold into hundreds upon hundreds dying. This was so much worse than time he acted like a college professor and rejected that poor boy’s artwork in Austria. I could only hope nothing would change in our present day.

Harold must have lost his senses after talking to Arthur (I don’t blame him), as he ordered his soldiers to charge and meet the Normans head on. I was left covered in dirt kicked up by the advancing army. I coughed and sat down at the top of the hill. I couldn’t watch the bloodshed. I waved in the direction of the fight. “You go down and pick up a shield when you can,” I said.

“Why me?” said Arthur.

“Because you’re so damn annoying.”

“Fair enough. I’ll be back in a bit. I’ll snap a few pictures, too. Barry loves his pictures.”

With his cape fluttering like he was a hero about to stop the war, Arthur tripped and rolled part way down the hill.

It took a while for him to return. Unless my sense of time was off. It wouldn’t surprise me. I think I had stopped aging since I had discovered this power. Forever twenty-two. Forever worried what might happen when word of our business reached certain ears.

“Hey!” Arthur waved the elongated, pointed shield. “I got one. And I think Harold’s dead.”

“Good thing we got a picture of his wonderful smile,” I said, dusting off my butt. “Let’s go back home and give Barry his expensive crap.”

 

Another day, another job done. Arthur had gone to visit Barry and hand over the merchandise. I sat back, stretching, relaxing, breathing in the scent of the money soon to be in my hands. Two freaking million! While the risks worried me endlessly, sometimes you got to be a little crazy. History would sort itself out, regardless of what we did and how much money we earned. The Anglo-Saxons were going to lose, anyway. We just picked up a couple things after they didn’t need them anymore. There wasn’t a law against grave robbing (not in that period, anyway… I think).

The door swung into the bell with a jingle and clicked shut. My relaxation had hit its peak with a broad smile and closed eyes after Arthur placed the case on the table. I didn’t even need to open it. I could sense every note inside. It must have been another ability I had.

But the smell changed from rich paper to a beverage seldom brewed in our home of business when it was just the two of us. My eyes opened and struck the cup of tea on the table beside the case.

Arthur had used another one from the fancy, ostentatious glass cabinet. One with an ornate avian design and a golden curved handle.

“Oh, no,” I cried. “We just got back! What is it now?”

“Barry wants a cigar fresh from Fidel Castro’s mouth. And one of the lovable communist leader’s beard hairs.”

“Fan-freaking-tastic. How much?”

“Three million.”

I drank the tea.

You don’t. To get shingles, you have to have had chicken pox in the past.

Chicken pox is a herpes virus, so just like cold sores or the STI, you never get rid of it. The virus goes dormant in sensory nerves and just lurks there. Then sometime you are stressed, run down, older, sick with something else that suppresses your immunity a bit – and the chicken pox virus that has been in your nerves comes out as shingles. You get weeping blisters along the nerve path and pain from nerve inflammation,

There is a vaccine for shingles. Even better is to get your kids vaccinated for chicken pox so they never get it, and thus are not at risk for shingles.

If you have shingles, you can give someone chicken pox if they come in contact with the blisters – if they have never had chicken pox before, and never been vaccinated.

Norwegian Spaghetti Salad

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Ingredients

Salad

  • 1(8 ounce) package spaghetti
  • 1 (20 ounce) bag frozen peas and carrots
  • 1/2 pound cooked salad or cocktail shrimp

Dill Caper Dressing

  • 3/4 cup mayonnaise
  • 3/4 cup sour cream or yogurt
  • 1 to 2 tablespoons capers
  • 4 scallions, chopped
  • 1 to 2 teaspoons dill weed
  • Salt and pepper, to taste

Instructions

  1. Break spaghetti in half. Cook until tender.
  2. Rinse and drain. Chill.
  3. Rinse peas and carrots under hot water until defrosted. Drain. chill.
  4. Mix pasta, peas and carrots and dressing.
  5. Garnish with shrimp and parsley.

Limerick, 1968.

A young boy is walking to school. His name is John. As he passes the high walls and the bare winter trees, he looks smart in his school blazer and tie. To all the world, he’s just a normal boy. He arrives for class, takes his seat and the lesson begins. During the course of it, the young teacher calls his name. His heart sinks. He slowly gets up and makes his way through the rows of desks, his teachers eyes following every footstep. When he arrives to face him, the young man hoists him up and tosses his long black cloak around the boy.

Then, he molests him.

It wasn’t an isolated event either — in all those days over all those months that John made that trip to school, he was doing so with the fear that his teacher was going to abuse him again. Day, night, spring through to winter, he lived with that terrible secret. He wasn’t the only one either. Numerous other boys at the school received the same treatment, recounting how their teacher would become red and puffy, how a vein would protrude down the middle of his forehead, and how they would return to their seat afterwards, the back of their shirts ‘wet’.

A group of the Creagh Lane school victims.

Many of them kept this secret to themselves for the next forty years, with not even wives and children having any clue. It’s likely they would have kept it that way for the rest of their lives, had the police not knocked on their doors as part of a belated investigation into the abuse that took place at the school. Eventually John and his fellow victims took their former teacher to court, where the man admitted to 36 counts of abuse, and was subsequently sentenced.

He received two years in prison.

More than a decade later, the group are still fighting. This time for compensation. The Irish state, you see, has only offered compensation to kids who were molested in residential institutions, and not to day students like the group. Rightly, he thinks that the state should not discriminate between the two groups. Abuse is abuse, after all. He got to go home, yes, but he wasn’t escaping it.

Out of all the groups that I refuse to acknowledge as human, abusers are amongst the top set.

OMG! I laughed and laughed and laughed over this movie review.

Remember, the world is your scratching post—but treat it accordingly

Your thinking has been tainted by the Mafia-type healthcare system in the US, where everything from beginning to end is profit-driven.

Universal Healthcare is not profit-driven.

For example, aspirin in bulk costs around 1 cent each.

In the US, a hospital might charge $50 for an aspirin given to a patient. The profit is used for dividends to stockholders, million-dollar CEOs, bribes to Congress, and lobbyists, all in order to maintain the Mafia.

In Universal Healthcare, the patient is given the one-cent aspirin for “free”.

There are no stockholders, million-dollar CEOs, bribes to Congress, or lobbyists.

The aim is to break even, not make a profit.

Very safe.

For a number of years I ran my own small business making and selling children’s jewelry. (Don’t look so shocked. There is a niche market for it in the US and people will pay good money. Especially for custom work.) I ordered all of my supplies from Chinese vendors. They provided me bulk product for very reasonable prices.

I never had a problem. I always received what I ordered and in excellent condition. The only thing you want to be mindful of is if you want low cost or free shipping you’ll need to wait up to six weeks. I knew that so I always planned ahead and ordered well before I needed something.

All the pieces for this sensory chew necklace were ordered from China.

Though sometimes you can’t please everyone (lol) I was always pleased with my purchases.

The Thinking Inside Russia: “Operation Oshelomlenie”

Hal Turner World October 31, 2025

Russian Philosopher and writer Alexander Dugin warns that only a shock-and-awe campaign can shatter the West’s arrogance and restore Russia’s power.

Interview with Alexander Dugin in the Sputnik TV program Escalation.

Presenter:

I’d like to begin with a truly important topic, the importance of which everyone understands. Yesterday, Vladimir Vladimirovich announced the successful tests of the Burevestnik missile—a new missile capable of circling the planet for months, potentially unsettling the West and any other country. Western media outlets like the New York Times dubbed this missile a “flying Chernobyl,” saying it destabilized the situation and complicated arms control. The West’s reaction was very strong. I’m curious: How will this missile affect the balance of power? What advantages does it offer us at this stage?

 

Alexander Dugin:

First, I must admit that I’m no expert on weapons proliferation, and I’m hesitant to appear amateurish in this field. I’m a sociologist who studies geopolitics and political psychology, so I’ll analyze the topic from those perspectives, perhaps with a touch of philosophy.

It seems to me that Trump, under the influence of neoconservatives, has created a misperception of Russia’s position in the Ukraine conflict, our capabilities, interests, values, and what we are and are not prepared to do. We cannot find common ground with a Trump who is convinced that pressure, threats, or raising his voice are sufficient to end the conflict in Ukraine. He needs to abandon this belief and reshape his mindset. This is difficult to achieve with words alone. There have been negotiations in Anchorage, meetings between our president and Trump. He is an impulsive man who lives in the moment, is angry and aggressive, but respects strength and decisive responses. We understand that we have tried different approaches to communicating with him, but he refuses to accept a “soft” approach. He sees any kind of politeness as a sign of weakness.

When we say, “We’re open to dialogue,” he thinks we’re powerless to continue the war. When we propose a compromise, he replies, “Only on our terms: a ceasefire, then we’ll sort it out.” It’s fundamentally wrong to view Russia, a major nuclear, military, and economic power, as a subordinate, like a protectorate like Europe, Ukraine, or Israel. We’ve recognized this. Neither politeness, nor declarations, nor reasonable formulas work for it. It perceives politeness as weakness, reasonableness as cowardice, and willingness to compromise as surrender. This is completely wrong, and it never has been. We must demonstrate our strength. President Vladimir Vladimirovich used the word oshelomlene (“shock,” “stunning”) when referring to this issue—the West must be shocked by our actions. The Burevestnik test, dubbed the “Flying Chernobyl,” is a step in this direction. But this is not enough; we must go further.

We must intimidate the West because they have run out of rational arguments. Only something truly frightening can force them to speak to Russia on equal terms.

 

Presenter:

Isn’t the fact that the Burevestnik can stay airborne for long periods of time and is nearly impossible to track or shoot down scary enough on its own?

 

Alexander Dugin:

The point is that the West views our statements with skepticism. I’ve studied the Western press: many describe the Burevestnik as a bluff, a fantasy weapon, doubt its merits, and are confident they’ll find countermeasures. This will always be the case: our demonstrations of force are met with accusations of distrust and deception. Dmitry Seims rightly emphasizes: To overcome bluffing, a real show of force is necessary.

The West bluffs more skillfully: modest achievements are exaggerated as “great breakthroughs.” Trump speaks in a bombastic style: “Great! Magnificent! Absolutely!” His rhetoric, full of power and confidence, captivates people like a cobra hypnotizes a rabbit. Our 35 years of diplomacy were based on a different foundation: “Let’s avoid conflict, find compromises, and consider our interests.” The response: “Great, we’ll crush you!” Precise strikes that leave Iran’s nuclear program untouched are presented as victories. The media seizes on this, and Trump himself believes Iran is “on its knees.” These are self-fulfilling prophecies: they declare a “devastating attack,” present a fabricated outcome, and it works in virtual reality. Our revelations and arguments are unimpressive. Trump’s failures are declared victories and receive media coverage.

We need to attack a sensitive point that can’t be ignored. I have no idea what that will be. The president is talking about oshelomelene: The West must be shocked. We launched the Burevestnik, but there was no reaction. Even if they’re afraid, they claim Russia is bluffing, its economy is weak, sanctions are effective, and assets can be seized. We’re facing hell. Trump, while looking better, is practically waging Biden’s war. He keeps saying, “This isn’t my war,” but he acts as if it were his own. Soon, he’ll say, “This is my war, and I’ll win it in one day.” We need to sharply temper our rhetoric. They’re not observing formalities, while we’re still politely accepting blows. Kirill Dmitriev, in the spirit of Gorbachev, is trying to normalize relations with the US, but they perceive this as a white flag, a surrender.

 

Presenter:

Next, we’ll discuss the visit of Kirill Dmitriev, Chairman of the Russian Direct Investment Fund, and the normalization, or lack thereof, of Russia-US relations. I want to return to your remarks about Oshelomlenie. You previously suggested that this could be the beginning of “Operation Oshelomlenie,” linked to attacks on infrastructure in Ukraine. What is this “Operation Oshelomlenie”? Do you mean a show of force with our missiles on the battlefield?

 

Alexander Dugin:

Again, I’m no weapons expert, but I do study the collective consciousness. Sometimes a small, precisely targeted drone can have a greater impact than destroying Ukraine’s entire infrastructure, especially if that destruction goes unnoticed.

We live in a world of symbols and images, where there’s no direct connection between our power and its perception. I’m not telling you what to attack—models must be calculated. For example, with Zelensky—that’s one reality; without him—it’s a very different reality. They’re confident we won’t be able to conquer it. Their goal isn’t to liberate Ukraine, but to wage war on us through others. As long as Zelensky exists, even if he’s alone, it’s integrated into their propaganda, and everything becomes “fantastic, wonderful.” Destroy infrastructure—they’ll hide it. The military sees real maps and satellite imagery, but the public, which decides on sanctions or attacks, is shown manipulated images. Manipulating reality isn’t new; it’s the West’s postmodern approach over the past 30 years. A military operation is ineffective without media support, without striking images, even without AI-generated images. A combination of military action, policy, explanations, visual images, and demonstrations is required to convince the audience. If it’s not shown, it’s as if it never happened.

We weren’t prepared for this kind of war—this is a new challenge for us. We measure success by the number of killed and the territory liberated, pardoning our enemies, preparing a “goodwill gesture” for 20,000 murderers in a cauldron. What we need is an act of defiance that targets our opponents, not ourselves. This requires not only military strategy but also media mastery. To stun the West, especially in the context of Trump’s escalation, you need to get them to shout, “This is terrifyingly fantastic, the Russians have crossed all the limits!”—while they continue to insist that we are weak, not advancing, avoiding decisive action, and making concessions.

But there are actions that rhetoric cannot distort. They must be taken. The methods exist.

 

Presenter:

You mentioned the attacks on Bankova [Street]. Is that the surprising factor?

 

Alexander Dugin:

The attack on Bankova has been discussed so much that it’s lost all meaning. I don’t know what it will be—a tiny drone, an electronic pigeon, an incomprehensible microscopic element, or a Burevestnik descending from the sky. Perhaps a tiny mosquito will eliminate Yermak and Budanov, or something more fundamental. I don’t make decisions; I don’t know our capabilities, and I don’t offer advice. Those responsible must decide. But: it’s dangerous to announce the oshelomene and not to stun.

Our rhetoric is sharpening, we’re showcasing our capabilities, and people are waiting for our next move. We need to stun our enemies so they’re truly shocked. I’m monitoring the West’s reaction—they’re staying quiet about Oreshnik and Burevestnik. Trump doesn’t seem fazed.

In this terrifying game of clamoring for humanity’s fate, I analyze its psychology, sociology, geopolitics, even its smallest gestures. But there’s no stun.

We’re not finished yet. Our goal isn’t to convince them with our power, but to shake them. If Trump says, “This isn’t my war,” cuts off their support channels, and leaves the Europeans to fend for themselves, then we’ll surprise some. We need to shake Albion, Paris, and Merz. The attack by unknown drones alarmed and unsettled them, but it didn’t shock them. Something incredible is needed. We must stop harboring any illusions that they’ll take us seriously. We’re stronger, more dangerous, and more powerful than they think. We must prove it, and that’s the oshelomlenie operation. So far, there are no results. We must continue.

 

Presenter:

Let me clarify: Kyryll Budanov is on the terrorist and extremist list. I’d like to add to your remarks: Trump said, “They don’t play with us, and we don’t play with them.” What could this possibly mean?

 

Alexander Dugin:

Nothing. Like a little cough. We could say the same thing: “We’re playing, they’re playing.” When Trump has nothing to say, he’ll make some absurd comment that makes sense but doesn’t make sense. This means we don’t surprise him. When we surprise him, he’ll speak coherently. For now, this is his usual trolling—interpret it however you like; he doesn’t even understand what he’s saying. His resolve to escalate to a new nuclear escalation hasn’t been broken. Unfortunately.

 

Presenter:

I have one final question about “Operation Oshelomlenie.” For example, if Ermak or Zelensky were removed, as you mentioned, don’t you think European media and politicians would immediately use this to create a martyr image and explain to their citizens that there was now a direct threat requiring preparations for war with Russia? They’re currently manipulating the facts to paint a vague picture, and this would provide them with the perfect tool.

 

Alexander Dugin:

Perhaps it will. But if someone wants to fight against us, they will start a war, whether they find a pretext or not. I’m not insisting on concrete decisions. Operation Oshelomlenie has been declared, and I believe it’s a timely and correct decision. However, the nature of the operation is the exclusive authority of the Commander-in-Chief and the military-political leadership. I’m not suggesting or implying anything—I’m simply offering examples and examples.

But remember this: If we don’t stun them, they will prepare for war more successfully and quickly. We say, “We’ll stun them now,” but we don’t act. Then they will stage a provocation themselves—sending a “mosquito” to Zelensky, blaming the Russians, and blaming us for everything. False flag operations are the standard practice in modern politics. If we don’t act, they will do it for us and use it against us.

Reality has lost its credibility—it no longer exists. Everything is determined by appearances. There’s a lack of power imagery. They say the Russians are dangerous but insignificant. We threaten but are helpless. This paves the way for their aggression: the image of a ruthless but weak enemy like Saddam Hussein or Hamas. They lure us into this trap, and we don’t resist. We repeat, “We are peaceful, we don’t want to attack.” They respond, “They are weak, they hide their threats, they are afraid of being exposed.” This is one-sided information warfare.

There are rare opportunities—few, but they exist—that could undermine their information attack strategy. We must attack their information bubble, not the West or Ukraine. This bubble is dangerous: it creates an image that justifies a real war against us—like the Tomahawk missiles and nuclear submarines Trump mentioned. They believe that attacks like the one on Iran will force us to surrender. The more we declare, “We won’t attack, we’ll follow the rules,” the stronger the impression of our weakness. We take 20,000 Ukrainian soldiers captive, exchange them, create conditions—that’s perceived as weakness. How can we change that? I don’t know. But it’s necessary.

We must put in place mechanisms that take the information dimension into account. Their lies are not harmless—they lead to missile attacks on our territory. Then we must respond forcefully. They integrate everything into their narrative—peacefulness, firmness, negotiations, decisive action. How can we disrupt their information warfare at this critical juncture? We must halt the aggression the West is increasingly approaching. The balance between rationality and force requires fine-tuning. Escalation or endless evasion is tantamount to surrender.

This is the art of war, high politics, the art of the struggle for sovereignty and national interests. Politics is a struggle for existence—a philosophical category. Some rulers possess this art, while others wreak havoc. We must not rest on our laurels—storm clouds are gathering above us. It is time to seek allies for a potential war.

I propose establishing a military alliance with China: If the West understands that an attack on us will provoke a reaction from our allies, this will deter them. If their attention shifts to Taiwan, we must support China. We are on the verge of doing so. Russia and China are powerful economic, geopolitical, and military powers. We must strengthen our ties with India and other countries. A litmus test of this is the US aggression against Venezuela and Colombia. If they change regimes there, it poses a threat to us. This is their Monroe Doctrine, their “Ukraine,” and they will not stop. Success will increase their confidence in their ability to act against us and China. We must intensify our geopolitical efforts in Latin America. If we allow Trump to easily change regimes there, our position will worsen.

 

Presenter:

So should we provide weapons?

 

Alexander Dugin:

To everyone—Iran, Hezbollah, Venezuela. Actively, massively, unrestrainedly, as the US does. At the same time, say, “We’re for peace, Trump, you’re great, but this is business.” Maduro paying for Oreshnik missiles and air defense systems—that’s a deal. As Trump said, “That’s a deal.” If you live with wolves, howl like a wolf. That’s oshelomlene.

And we say, “We will not support Hamas, Hezbollah, we will reach agreements in Syria, we will help Iran from afar, we will not form military alliances within the BRICS.” That makes us “Cheburashkas”—not scary, crazy cartoon characters preparing for an attack. The West portrays the war against Russia as a cartoon.

Now we must disrupt their “cartoon” war plan. Trump is strong in his MAGA ideology, but he’s acting monstrously, not at our expense. Our stake isn’t just in the line of contact, but also in Russia’s global position. We are a polar opposite, and in the Middle East, we must take a stand on our friends and enemies, forge alliances, and provide military and financial assistance with the expectation of reciprocity. This applies to Africa, Asia, and Latin America. A great power cares about everything, even the Falkland Islands. Do we have the resources?

If our resources are insufficient, any displacement will cost us our sovereignty. We are surrounded, and the enemy will demand more—the colonization of Russia. The West is talking about this day and night, creating resources for our collapse—conspiracies, regime-change operations. If we show weakness—Africa, Latin America, the Middle East, Asia will not be ours. Then they will say, “Siberia is not yours, the North Caucasus is not yours.”

Western hegemony is a machine operating in new, networked realities. Artificial intelligence is a prime example. Like Elon Musk, we embrace it without understanding that it has liberal landmines planted within it. It could explode like Hezbollah’s pagers. We don’t grasp the scale of the conflict we’re currently engaged in. We don’t understand the technical side, the grant-based recruitment of our science, culture, and economy. The West has infiltrated us and left back doors in every institution—democracy, the free market. In the 1990s, we handed the keys to the city to the enemy. And we still haven’t fully liberated ourselves. We’re fighting at every level, including information, but we don’t always know how. We think the conflict may be local, but it’s a global one.

 

Presenter:

We’re thinking in good faith, but the world isn’t ready for this. You mentioned allies and China. I want to clarify: Donald Trump’s current visit and his upcoming meeting with Xi Jinping on October 30th—what should we expect from this? Some outlets are reporting that Trump will try to divert China’s energy away from Russia.

 

Alexander Dugin:

That’s partly why he’s going, but not only why. Trump has abandoned his MAGA philosophy and embraced a neoconservative stance. He’s a tool in the hands of people like Lindsey Graham. His goal is to build alliances in Southeast Asia using threats, bribes, and offers that, in his view, China can’t refuse. This is war. He says, “I’m competing with China,” but he’s fighting us. Biden, Obama, the neoconservatives—that’s today’s Trump.

Trump isn’t just fighting China; he’s making deals against us. Xi Jinping is unlikely to take radical measures against us, but we must work to prevent that from happening. We need to build a strong partnership with China. Our president is working tirelessly on this, but the mechanisms of Russian politics are sometimes unable to adapt to these challenges—they are too slow, bureaucratic, and cumbersome. Putin acts like a hero, as if the fate of humanity depends on him, but his instructions are drowning in paperwork, and the vertical structure becomes horizontal. We must accelerate our alliances with those who share a multipolar agenda—militarily, economically, and strategically. Operation Oshelomlenie has several phases: making positive strides in global politics, winning new friends, and supporting allies.

His visit is a hostile move. He’s plotting and making deals against us. He thinks he’s in control, but Russia is a sovereign state and will not obey him. He’s caught up in our conflict while expecting an easy victory. Europe is also grumbling, but it’s following the neoconservatives. And that’s dangerous.

What is the Role of Consciousness in Quantum Mechanics? – Ask a Spaceman!

What is the role of consciousness in quantum mechanics, if there even is one? Is there any way at all to develop a coherent view of nature based on quantum mechanics? What are the ultimate lessons that we can learn from quantum mechanics? I discuss these questions and more in today’s Ask a Spaceman!

It can’t?

But in the stupidity of that question, as something changes, poof, there’s a solution?

Gee, 5.56 mm can’t penetrate body armor?

that’s interesting, but first off,

For most of the enemies we actually engage…

What is this body armor of which you speak?

Generally, they didn’t have it.

some did, but they weren’t large in numbers.

The Taliban didn’t have body armor in huge quantities until it was abandoned to them in Afghanistan, they are trying to use it, notice that you’ll see more and more terrorists who were taught to index their weapons as well.

some will know what’s wrong with the gear on these guys.

But guess what?

the Taliban are no longer our enemy, so them having massive quantities of excellent body armor means nothing to us in the realm of what 5.56 mm can do!


The concerns.

So 5.56 mm can’t defeat body armor worn by our near peer enemy threats, which means the Chinese and the Russians.

It’s best we don’t tell these guys of the Ukrainian 78th Assault Regiment that the Russians wearing body armor didn’t die, and the bullet holes they put in them didn’t exist.

Yep, none of those guys you killed with torso shots, actually were shot.

Hold on Russians, don’t surrender, they only have M4’s. Those are 5.56 mm rifles, they can’t harm your torsos according to the person who asked the question at the top.

As for the Chinese body armor, we know it was worthless against AK’s in Africa during that fiasco UN mission.


But for near peer threats, with body armor, the US is already working on that.

The new rifle and machine gun adopted by the US Army is in a higher caliber and it’s more of a full rifle round rather than an intermediate round. This will address the concerns about the future threat.

Contrary to what some other answers suggest, the 5.56mm round was not designed to wound rather than kill. That is one of those myths that rates up there with using a tampon to stop bleeding

Research was done in the 1950s into the characteristics of firefights. The studies showed that firefights were typically initiated within 200m and resolved within 100m. It also demonstrated the high volume if missed rounds in a typical contact, and that rifle fire was generally used to suppress in contacts. It was determined that to effectively suppress a target you needed a round to get within 3ft of them every 2 seconds, and this needed lots of ammunition.

A project to study ammunition effectiveness demonstrated that a smaller round than the 7.62mm could be used while still maintaining lethality at normal combat ranges. There was no point carrying heavy ammunition which is effective at 1000m when most of your firefights are resolved at a fraction of this distance. This would allow more ammunition to be carried for the same weight. It would allow the weapon firing it to be lighter and have lower recoil than a full power round, thus improving accuracy when fired quickly or on automatic. A tender was put out and the .223 Remington round (5.56mm M193) was developed in response, itself a development from the .222 varmint round. 5.56mm NATO (SS109/M855) was designed in the late 70s-early 80s as a response to the increased use of body armour by Soviet forces. The SS109 round was designed to have better armour penetration properties than the M193. 5.56mm became the standard NATO cartridge, mostly because of pressure from the US despite more effective rounds being developed elsewhere.

No where in the the development criteria was the desire to wound rather than kill stated. Shooting to wound is not stated in the training pamphlets or doctorine of any NATO force. No where is the idea of wounding to remove more people from the battle suggested. From a personal perspective I was an infantry soldier for over 2 decades. I have taught recruits and was a skill at arms instructor and was never taught this as a doctorine. I firmly believe this concept was initially started when training staff were questioned about what the change was made and they didn’t know the answer so thought this made sense. Myths become reality quickly in the military.

Creating a weapon that is specifically designed to wound goes against the Geneva conventions regarding the use of weapons that cause unnecessary pain or suffering. It also does not make sense from a tactical standpoint. It works on the assumption that the enemy have the same regard for casualties that we do. It also assumes that they will stop fighting to treat and evacuate or that a wounded soldier cannot fight. It also assumes they dont have separate evacuation chain that doesn’t take their shooters out of the battlefield.

The 5th section battle drill is the attack and fight through the enemy position, followed by the 6th drill which is the reorg. At this stage having won the contact, enemy wounded who cannot fight are now regarded as hors de combat. I now own their position and am duty bound to render aid and evacuate them if safe to do so. The enemy wounded are now my responsibility and a drain on my medical equipment, evacuation chain and further medical resources, not the enemies.

Good to see some myths are still floating around though.

Grilled Sticky Ribs

Kick-off summer festivities with these succulent ribs. Baked first, these Grilled Sticky Ribs are then grilled with a sweet chili glaze for a delightful Asian-inspired finish.

Grilled Sticky Ribs

Prep: 20 min | Cook: 3 hr 15 min | Yield: 5 to 6 servings

Ingredients

  • Aluminum foil
  • 2 racks (about 4 pounds total) baby back ribs
  • Garlic salt
  • Ground black pepper
  • 1 tablespoon vegetable oil
  • 1/4 cup finely chopped red onion
  • 1 teaspoon finely chopped garlic
  • 1 teaspoon grated fresh ginger
  • 3/4 cup Maggi Taste of Asia Sweet Chili Sauce
  • 1/2 cup Apple Nestlé ® Juicy Juice® All Natural 100% Juice
  • 1 tablespoon rice wine (mirin)

Instructions

  1. Heat oven to 300 degrees F.
  2. Using knife, remove membrane from bone side of ribs (this step is very important for tender ribs). Pat ribs dry with paper towel; season both sides liberally with garlic salt and pepper. Place ribs in a large roasting pan, overlapping as needed. Add about 1/2 cup water to pan. Cover tightly with foil.
  3. Bake for about 3 hours or until meat is very tender but not quite falling off the bones.
  4. Heat oil in small saucepan over medium-high heat. Add onion; cook, stirring occasionally, for 2 to 3 minutes or until soft.
  5. Stir in garlic and ginger; cook for 1 minute.
  6. Stir in sweet chili sauce, Juicy Juice and rice wine.
  7. Reduce heat to low; cook for 8 minutes or until sauce is reduced to about 1 cup (it should be thick and sticky).
  8. Heat grill or broiler.
  9. Brush glaze over tops of ribs. Grill over medium flame for 4 to 5 minutes or broil about 4 inches from heat for 3 to 5 minutes or until sauce caramelizes.
  10. Serve with any remaining glaze.

I’m an outsider looking in and a Western woman who spent $75 dollars on my wedding dress and less than $3000 on an entire wedding that I solely paid for when I had my failed marriage, so I’m not sure I’m one to ask.

From what I can tell of my years listening to my Chinese friends and reading about modern Chinese customs, it seems to be that when two families join together in Chinese culture, that a wedding is a time when they showcase their wealth.

Or at least showcase their ability to provide for their children who are marrying.

This is likely what you are experiencing.

I suppose it is about saving face.

I personally do not see the need to spend such money on one day but it is just a difference of culture and if they can afford it, then it is none of my business how they spend their money.

And anyway, I have heard they recover what they spend when the guests give red envelopes so I suppose it all evens out in the end.

Heir to the Ring

Written in response to: Write a story about a cherished heirloom that has journeyed through multiple generations.

Keshav Mathur

Ethan slouched against the cool leather seat, as a cacophony of reporters’ voices crackled from his phone. The screen displayed a news broadcast overlaid with a photograph of a stern-faced man: Thomas Scott, the wealthiest individual on Earth and CEO of Scott Industries. Bold headlines scrolled beneath the image, declaring his unexpected death earlier that morning.A poised news anchor appeared next. “Thomas Scott’s sudden passing leaves a power vacuum at the world’s largest conglomerate. Known for dominating industries from defense manufacturing to space exploration, Scott Industries has shaped global technology for close to two centuries.”She paused, letting footage roll. Fighter jets soaring, interspersed with images of sleek electric cars, massive data centers and monstrous rocket engines bearing the Scott logo.Then a montage of critics played—prominent politicians and activists. One claimed he was “the single greatest threat to humanity,” another called him “an oligarch controlling fascist governments”. They flashed images of global protests, picket signs reading Stop War Profiteering. A senator’s voiceover declared, “Scotts turned human suffering into a revenue stream.”Ethan’s gaze flicked to the next clip: a photo of himself, hair shaggier and eyes fierce, leading a rally outside a towering Scott Industries skyscraper. He held up a sign: End the War Machine. The anchor’s voice chimed in again, “Even more intriguing is Thomas Scott’s only son and heir, 22-year-old Ethan Scott, widely regarded as an outspoken critic of his father’s empire. Many see him as an altruistic figure, —”He closed the news app with a decisive tap, silencing the broadcast as the helicopter hummed steadily around him. Outside the window, the sprawling expanse of New York City gave way to the lush, green outskirts where the Scott family estate loomed. For a moment, Ethan stared at the dark screen of his phone, a storm of emotions stirring inside him.

 

The pilot glanced at Ethan through the rearview mirror. “We’ll be landing in about 10 minutes, Mr. Scott.”

Ethan nodded. The vast property sprawled beneath them, its manicured lawns and imposing architecture a stark contrast to the chaos of the city he’d just left behind. The rotors began to slow, and the helicopter touched down smoothly on the expansive driveway.

 

A wave of unease rolled through him.

 

******

 

The grand living room of the Scott mansion buzzed with subdued conversations as Ethan stepped through the ornate double doors. The space, adorned with sleek modern art and opulent furnishings. Four key executives stood near the center. Frank Lunz, the poised CFO in an impeccable suit; Chairman Harold Fox, an old man with silver hair and a commanding presence, his father’s oldest friend and advisor; Linda Chen, the Chief Legal Counsel; Marcus Reed, the charismatic Head of PR.

 

“Ethan,” Frank began, his voice gentle. “We’re all so sorry for your loss.”

 

Fox placed a hand on Ethan’s shoulder. “Thomas was a visionary. Please accept our deepest condolences.”

 

Linda nodded in agreement. “If there’s anything you need, we’re here to support you.”

 

Marcus added, “This must be an incredibly difficult time for you.”

Ethan managed a small smile, a little surprised to see everyone there. “Thank you, all of you. I appreciate your support.”

 

He took a deep breath, glancing around the room. “I need some time alone.”

 

As Ethan turned to leave for his room, Marcus exchanged a fleeting look with Linda. “Ethan, if I may… We hate to bring this up now, but we need to discuss the messaging.”

 

Ethan paused. “Can this wait?”

 

Linda stepped forward, her tone soft. “Your father’s sudden passing has created some uncertainty. The stock is plummeting since it’s known you have been critical of the company.”

 

Frank interjected smoothly, “We’ve already spoken with the President and he is ready to suspend trading for the day.”

 

Marcus continued, “With his passing all his shares and board seats pass down to you. We’d like you to meet with the board and address the press. A statement from you could reassure investors that you won’t make any rash decisions.”

 

Ethan’s frustration boiled over. “You vultures have no decency! Maybe I should go straight to the press and announce I’m donating all my shares to Greenpeace.”

 

The room fell silent, tension thick in the air. Chairman Fox said with a steady voice. “The kid has just lost his father. We need to give him some space.”

 

Ethan turned and began ascending the grand staircase, his eyes lingered on the portraits of his ancestors—Scotts going back five generations, all titans of industry. The weight of their legacy pressed heavily on him. With that, Ethan continued up the stairs as the room below watched him go, concern apparent in their eyes.

 

****

 

Ethan lay on his bed, mindlessly staring at the ornate ceiling. He was still trying to process the morning’s events and the flood of memories that accompanied his return to his childhood home. A soft knock broke the silence.

 

“Come in,” he said.

 

Chairman Fox entered. “I’m sorry about downstairs,” he began, his voice quiet. “They’re not bad people—just stressed.”

 

Ethan sat up, legs dangling over the side of the bed. Ethan had known Mr. Fox since he was a kid. “I understand.” Ethan responded.

 

Fox held out a sealed envelope. “Your father asked me to give this to you personally, if…if anything happened to him. He made me promise it would pass directly from my hands to yours.”

 

Ethan’s heart thudded. He took the envelope. “Thank you,” he said, voice catching in his throat.

 

Fox squeezed Ethan’s shoulder. “I’ll leave you to it.” He stepped back, quietly closing the door behind him.

 

For a moment, Ethan simply stared at the envelope. Finally, with trembling fingers, he peeled it open.

 

Inside was a single sheet of paper, and an unmistakable glint of metal. He tilted the envelope, letting a heavy silver ring slide into his palm. It was intricately carved, the edges smooth from generations of wear. Ethan’s eyes flickered to the letter. And he read the note:

 

Son, if you are reading this, it means I have passed away unexpectedly, and I couldn’t hand over this ring in person. This ring has been passed down for five generations. It marks the transition of a Scott from boy to a man. Put it on, and may it guide you as it has guided all the great men before you.

 

A single tear traced down Ethan’s cheek. He hadn’t expected a sermon, but part of him longed for more—some final message. Instead, there were just these few lines.

 

He turned the ring over in his hand. Suddenly, the full reality of his loss washed over him. All his anger and regrets tumbled into a raw ache. His father was gone, and there would be no more chances for reconciliation.

 

Slowly, Ethan slid the ring onto his finger. It felt oddly comforting, its metal cool against his skin. He lay back against the pillows and covered his eyes with his forearm, silent tears slipping down. And drifted into a fitful nap.

 

*****

 

A sudden, intense heat surged through his finger, jerking him awake. Blinking against the haze of half-sleep, he realized his father’s ring was burning with an unnatural flame, its metal glowing a fierce, pulsating white.

 

A flash of light erupted from the ring, and Ethan could only stare in disbelief as it swallowed the room around him. When the glow subsided, he found himself outside on a wooden bench, the warm scent of fresh grass and blooming flowers drifting through the air. He recognized this place instantly—the Scott estate lawn, bathed in the golden light of a late afternoon sun.

 

Before him, a younger Thomas Scott carried a four-year-old Ethan on his shoulders, both of them carefree and laughing. The sight tightened Ethan’s chest with a wave of nostalgia and regret.

 

As Ethan took in the idyllic scene, he noticed an older version of his father approaching. This Thomas Scott, around fifty five years old, broad-shouldered and fit, white hair and beard, dressed in a casual collared shirt tucked into jeans.

 

A thousand questions flooded Ethan’s mind.

 

“Dad?” Ethan breathed, pulse thudding in his ears. “Is…is this a dream?”

 

Thomas settled onto the bench beside him. “It might feel like one, but it’s not. This is a next-generation virtual reality device—tech humanity isn’t ready for yet.”

 

Ethan’s heart pounded. “VR?” he repeated incredulously, glancing at the vivid colors of the estate. “It feels so real. But if this is VR, you’re not just…a pre-recorded—”

 

“—message?” Thomas finished for him, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. “No, son. You’ve always been quick to notice details. This is a digital reconstruction of me, built from my biological and mental blueprint. Think of it like a living hologram, projected by the ring’s interface.”

 

Ethan swallowed hard, his eyes drawn again to the ring. “But…how?”

 

Thomas placed a comforting hand on Ethan’s shoulder, the touch surprisingly real. “That ring  has carried forward an ancient secret through generations of Scotts, one older than our family even.”

 

Ethan’s breath caught. “What secret?” he asked.

 

Thomas sighed. “I know you and I haven’t always seen eye to eye. I was too busy to be the father you needed. But it’s time you learned the truth”

 

Ethan felt a chill ripple through him. The lawn around him began to shimmer and blur. The ring again sent gentle waves of warmth up his arm. The vibrant greens and blues of the estate’s gardens gave way to the muted browns and greys of a grimy factory floor.

 

He found himself inside a large, dimly lit building. Steam hissed from great metal pipes crisscrossing the walls. The air was thick with the pungent odors of oil and soot, and shafts of pale daylight streamed through high windows. Metallic clanking and the hum of machinery filled the space, their gears turning as they spun cotton into cloth. Through the haze, Ethan could see workers stooped over machines, their faces smudged with coal dust and fatigue.

 

“This,” came the voice of Thomas Scott, “is Manchester, England. The year is 1825. My great-great-great grandfather Alexander Scott ran this textile mill—one of the most successful in the region.”

 

They moved closer to a small, glass-walled office that overlooked the rows of steam-powered looms. Within, a young man—Alexander Scott—pored over ledgers, tapping a quill against his chin in thought. He appeared to be in his early thirties, with a stout build and sharp, intense eyes. His hair was cropped short in the style of the day, and he wore a high-collared waistcoat.

 

“There’s Alexander,” Thomas said.

 

A faint knock at the door drew Alexander’s attention. A mail clerk entered the office, handing over a small parcel. Slicing it open, Alexander withdrew a simple wooden box. Inside it lay a ring— identical to Ethan’s, gleaming in the oil-lamp light.

 

Alexander’s brows drew together in confusion. He lifted a folded note from beneath the ring and began to read. Though Ethan couldn’t make out the words, he saw the flicker of shock cross Alexander’s features. Carefully, Alexander slipped the ring onto his finger. An immediate burst of faint light illuminated the office as the office itself vanished.

 

Ethan’s stomach lurched as though he were plummeting from a great height. When the world came back into focus, he found himself standing in what appeared to be the vacuum of outer space—except he could breathe normally, as though in a protective bubble. Earth shone below him, the blue-green sphere rotating against a star-splattered backdrop. He instinctively reached out, a surge of awe and vertigo mixing in his chest.

 

“The ring connected Alexander to the Space Guild for the first time,” Thomas’s voice explained. “Helping him see Earth from a vantage point no human in the 1820s could have imagined.”

 

Ethan’s eyes widened. And then, without warning, they began traveling—stars streaked by in a blur. Ethan felt no wind, no shift, just a rapid change of the visual landscape. Far from Earth, they arrived at a large, luminous planet crowned by swirling turquoise clouds. Its skies were dotted with silver spires and floating structures.

 

A moment later, Ethan and Thomas stood inside an enormous, domed chamber. The architecture was futuristic, yet oddly elegant—glass-like walls curved overhead, letting in the planet’s golden sunlight. At one end of the room, five tall thrones were arranged on a raised platform. Each seat was occupied by a figure that was…not human.

 

Standing before this panel of five was Alexander Scott, still dressed in his 19th-century attire. He looked dazed, overwhelmed.

 

Thomas murmured, “This was the first formal contact. For reasons unknown to us the Guild decided to choose our family. The Guild is the largest multi-species organization in the known universe, uniting many intelligent races.”

 

Ethan opened his mouth to speak, but the scene shifted again. They returned to Alexander’s factory office, where subtle transformations took place: new, steam-powered looms operating at unprecedented efficiency, advanced designs well ahead of what any competitor had at the time. The business boomed, catapulting the Scott name to prominence. Then the view fast-forwarded to a grand opening ceremony in 1865: Edward Scott, Alexander’s son, inaugurating a steel mill. Towering furnaces glowed in the background.

 

The scenes continued to flow: 1910, with William Scott in America, leading a factory churning out car engines and rudimentary airplane engines for military use in the looming First World War. Then 1950, showing Charles Scott presiding over the production of advanced aircraft engines and increasingly sophisticated weaponry.

 

Finally, the montage settled around 2022, returning to the modern day. They saw Thomas Scott, walking through vast data centers humming with supercomputers, then standing beside rocket prototypes lined up in a massive hangar. Rows of electric cars rolled off automated assembly lines.

 

Through it all, Thomas’s voice guided Ethan:

“The Guild nudged each generation of Scotts, offering insights ahead of our time. They guided our adoption of advanced technologies, from steam engines and steelmaking to rocket propulsion and AI. We weren’t the only innovators in history, but our family was always a step ahead.”

 

Ethan, reeling from the breadth of what he’d seen, tried to focus. “Why would they do that? Why help us so much?”

 

Thomas turned to him. “One of the Guild’s missions is to bring new civilizations into their fold. They call it the Great Unification. ‘Intelligent life,’ is rare and precious. They want to see it flourish. But there’s a catch.”

 

“The Guild only deals with a civilization that has a single recognized authority. No endless fracturing into warring factions. They find it too dangerous.”

 

Ethan exhaled, “So, they wanted our family to…what? Take over the world?”

 

“In a way… yes” Thomas said. “Enough that, when the time comes, Earth might present a unified front under a leader they are comfortable with. That way, the Guild can integrate humanity peacefully—share knowledge, resources, and the biggest gift of all – ability to bend spacetime.”

 

“That’s insane,” Ethan muttered angrily. “Nobody has a voice in this. We have no right to decide what’s best for billions of people.”

 

“If humans remain fractured when the Guild arrives, the risk of an interplanetary conflict is too great. The Guild has only one response to such potential threats.” Thomas replied.

 

A new scene loomed: a luminous beam lancing through Earth’s atmosphere, impacting the planet with catastrophic effect. The surface rippled and broke apart in an instant. Ethan drew a sharp breath, watching in horror as shockwaves rippled across continents, the planet consumed in a bright burst of annihilation.

Ethan turned away from the vision in horror. “What if we refuse integration?”

 

Thomas’s voice was somber. “Because in some time, with the advent of AI our technologies would be advanced enough to pose a threat far beyond Earth. The Guild will have no choice but to put us down.”

 

Thomas gently placed a hand on his shoulder. “I tried to steer the world toward a future where we’d be interconnected through technology, economics, and infrastructure. But as you know, the path has been messy.” He sighed. “And I regret many decisions.”

 

Thomas continued. “Every generation of Scott did what they had to. Now, it’s your turn, son. You must decide if you’ll carry on. But if we do nothing, the Guild will see humanity as too chaotic, too dangerous…”

 

Ethan asked “When does the Guild arrive?”

 

Thomas replies in a somber way “They arrive in 50 years… you will be the one who will be negotiating with them.”

 

Ethan swallowed hard. “But… what if—”

 

Thomas replies, “I know it’s a lot to take in son. But you were always so smart, so brave and yet so kind. You don’t see it yet but you were born for this.”

 

“I have a strategy laid out for Scott Industries. We’ll discuss it very soon. But first, you need to get back, Jessica is about to knock on the door.”

 

Before Ethan could utter another word, the simulation dissolved into streaks of white. He found himself back in his darkened room, the ring cool on his finger. Ethan looked down at the ring as his mind raced.

 

A soft knock at the door broke the silence. “Mr. Scott?”. It was his father’s secretary, Jessica. “Are you awake? We need you to discuss the plans for… for the funeral.”

 

“I’ll be down soon.” he said quietly, clearing his throat.

 

She hesitated. “Is everything all right?”

 

No, he thought, it isn’t. Nothing could be the same after the choice he had just made in that moment. But he squared his jaw. “I’m fine,” he said. “Let’s… let’s gather the team. I have a statement to prepare for the press, and a meeting to schedule with the board.”

 

Surprise flickered across Jessica’s face. She nodded, though. “Of course, Mr. Scott. I’ll gather them in your father’s office.”

A rising AI star left a promising US career to return to China

Fu Tianfan, a 32-year-old expert focused on AI-driven drug discovery and materials development, has returned to China from a tenure-track assistant professor at New York’s Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, and joined School of Computer Science at Nanjing University. His decision highlights China’s growing allure for elite global talents in the competitive tech landscape.

Fu aims to transform pharmaceutical processes through AI. He said China’s growing investment in higher education had created unprecedented opportunities for young scientists like him. At Nanjing, he intends to form cross-disciplinary teams to enhance drug design and clinical trials, partnering with industry to accelerate market entry.

While recognizing the U.S.’s established dominance in research infrastructure and commercialization, Fu emphasizes China’s advantages: a vast patient population for clinical data, proactive biomedical policies, and tech firms advancing AI innovation. His return also aligns with personal goals—reuniting with family after years overseas.

The Younger Generations Really Hate The Boomers …..

Pretty insane, right?

When I got kicked off my parents insurance back in the early 2000s, my dad suggested I call his old buddy Mike, an insurance salesman, and get a new policy, which should be pretty cheap for a healthy guy in his early 20s. So I filled out the forms, and heard back from Mike the same day I handed him the paperwork.

“You have asthma? I can’t sell you a policy if you have asthma.”

I was unable to insure myself, because of asthma.

I was then explained, for the first time, the concept of “pre-existing conditions.” I spent days flabbergasted that a person could be denied the right to affordable healthcare simply because they needed the healthcare. It turned out that the only way I would be able to insure myself was through my employer. . .my employer that kept the labor force below fulltime employment so that they didn’t have to offer insurance.

I had to find a different job in order to get insured, ultimately one that didn’t offer insurance until after you’d worked fulltime for a year, which is common practice in the working-class world.

So yes, this is how it was before Obama enacted the ACA. There are a lot of problems that need to be worked out of the ACA, but mandating the coverage of pre-existing conditions was one of the great accomplishments of Obama’s legislation.

Sir Whiskerton and the World as a Scratching Post: A Tale of Boundaries, Blunders, and Feline Wisdom

Ah, dear reader, prepare yourself for a tale of scratched fences, mischievous gnomes, and one very determined cat who taught a valuable lesson about respect and responsibility. Today’s story is one of exploration, boundaries, and the importance of treating the world with care—even when you’re having fun. So, grab your scratching post (or a sturdy tree, if you must), as we dive into Sir Whiskerton and the World as a Scratching Post: A Tale of Boundaries, Blunders, and Feline Wisdom.


The World is Your Scratching Post

It all began on a sunny morning, just as the farm was waking up to the gentle clucking of Doris the Hen and the distant mooing of Bessie the Tie-Dye Cow. Sir Whiskerton, the farm’s resident detective and philosopher, was perched on the barn roof, surveying his domain with a satisfied flick of his tail. Beside him sat Ditto, his ever-eager apprentice, who had a habit of repeating Sir Whiskerton’s every word.

“Ditto,” Sir Whiskerton began, his voice calm and authoritative, “today, I shall teach you an important lesson: ‘The world is your scratching post—treat it accordingly.’”

“Accordingly!” Ditto echoed, his tiny paws kneading the air.

Sir Whiskerton nodded. “Precisely. The world is full of opportunities for exploration and fun, but it’s also important to respect the boundaries of others. Do you understand?”

Ditto tilted his head, his eyes wide with curiosity. “Boundaries?”

“Yes, boundaries,” Sir Whiskerton said, gesturing to the farm around them. “For example, the farmer’s new fence is not a scratching post. It is a boundary, meant to keep us safe and organized. Do you see?”

Ditto nodded eagerly. “Boundary! Not scratching post!”

Sir Whiskerton smiled. “Good. Now, let’s put this lesson into practice.”


The Farmer’s New Fence

The farmer had recently installed a brand-new fence around the perimeter of the farm. It was a sturdy, white-picket fence, designed to keep the animals safe and the crops protected. The animals admired the fence, marveling at its pristine condition and shiny paint.

“Oh, cluck!” Doris squawked, inspecting the fence. “This is the most beautiful fence I’ve ever seen!”

“Fence!” Harriet echoed, tilting her head.

“Beautiful!” Lillian added, fainting dramatically onto a pile of hay.

Sir Whiskerton approached the fence, his tail flicking with approval. “Indeed, it is a fine fence. But remember, Ditto, this is not a scratching post. It is a boundary, and we must respect it.”

Ditto nodded, his tiny paws twitching with excitement. “Boundary! Not scratching post!”

But as Sir Whiskerton turned to address the other animals, Ditto’s curiosity got the better of him. The fence looked so smooth, so inviting… surely one little scratch wouldn’t hurt?

Before anyone could stop him, Ditto leapt at the fence, his claws sinking into the wood with a satisfying scratch-scratch-scratch.

“Ditto!” Sir Whiskerton cried, his voice filled with alarm. “What are you doing?!”

Ditto froze, his claws still embedded in the fence. “Uh… scratching?”

The animals gasped in unison, their eyes wide with horror. The once-pristine fence now bore a series of deep, jagged scratches, marring its shiny surface.

“Oh no!” Doris squawked, flapping her wings. “The farmer’s new fence! It’s ruined!”

“Ruined!” Harriet echoed, scratching her head.

“Farmer!” Lillian added, fainting dramatically onto a pile of hay.

Sir Whiskerton sighed, his tail flicking with frustration. “Ditto, this is exactly what I was trying to teach you. The world is your scratching post—but you must treat it with respect. This fence is not yours to scratch.”

Ditto’s ears drooped, his eyes filled with guilt. “I’m sorry, Sir Whiskerton. I didn’t mean to ruin the fence.”

Sir Whiskerton placed a paw on Ditto’s shoulder. “I know you didn’t. But now we must fix this before the farmer finds out.”


Gnomeo’s Mischief

Just as Sir Whiskerton was about to devise a plan to repair the fence, a mischievous laugh echoed through the barnyard. The animals turned to see Gnomeo, the farm’s resident gnome, standing nearby with a twinkle in his eye.

“Well, well, well,” Gnomeo said, stroking his beard. “Looks like someone’s been naughty.”

Sir Whiskerton narrowed his eyes. “Gnomeo, this is no time for your antics. We have a fence to repair.”

Gnomeo chuckled. “Oh, I’m not here to cause trouble. I’m here to help. After all, I’m the one who told Ditto about the fence.”

The animals gasped again, their eyes wide with shock. “You did what?!” Doris squawked.

“What?!” Harriet echoed, tilting her head.

“Gnomeo!” Lillian added, fainting dramatically onto a pile of hay.

Sir Whiskerton’s tail flicked with irritation. “Gnomeo, why would you do such a thing?”

Gnomeo shrugged, his grin widening. “I thought it would be funny. Besides, the fence was looking a bit too perfect. It needed some… character.”

Sir Whiskerton sighed, his patience wearing thin. “Gnomeo, your idea of ‘character’ has caused a farm-wide problem. Now, we must fix this before the farmer finds out.”

Gnomeo’s grin faded, replaced by a look of guilt. “Alright, alright. I’ll help. But first, you scratched my hat!”

Sir Whiskerton glanced at Gnomeo’s hat, which now bore a series of claw marks. “Consider it a fashion upgrade,” he said dryly.


The Farm-Wide Debate

As Sir Whiskerton, Ditto, and Gnomeo worked to repair the fence, the other animals gathered to discuss the incident. The scratched fence had sparked a farm-wide debate about boundaries and respect.

“The fence is a boundary,” Doris declared, flapping her wings. “We must respect it!”

“Boundary!” Harriet echoed, nodding vigorously.

“Respect!” Lillian added, fainting dramatically onto a pile of hay.

Rufus the Dog wagged his tail. “But what if the fence is in the way of our fun? Shouldn’t we be able to explore and play?”

Porkchop the Pig snorted. “Fun is important, but so is respect. We can’t just go around scratching everything we see.”

Bessie the Tie-Dye Cow mooed in agreement. “Peace and love, everyone. Let’s find a balance.”

Sir Whiskerton, overhearing the debate, stepped forward. “The world is your scratching post—but you must treat it with respect. Boundaries are important, but so is exploration. The key is to find a balance between the two.”

The animals nodded, their eyes filled with understanding. “Balance!” they chorused.


The Moral of the Story

As the fence was repaired and the farm returned to normal, the animals reflected on the day’s events.

The moral of the story, dear reader, is this: Respect your environment, even when you’re having fun. The world is full of opportunities for exploration and adventure, but it’s important to treat it with care and consideration. Boundaries exist for a reason, and respecting them ensures harmony and balance. And through it all, Sir Whiskerton’s wisdom reminded everyone that even the most playful actions should be tempered with responsibility.


A Happy Ending

With the fence restored and the lesson learned, the animals gathered for a celebratory feast. Ditto, now wiser and more responsible, sat beside Sir Whiskerton, his tiny paws twitching with excitement.

“Thank you, Sir Whiskerton,” Ditto said, his eyes filled with gratitude. “I’ll remember to respect boundaries from now on.”

Sir Whiskerton smiled, his tail flicking with satisfaction. “I’m glad to hear it, Ditto. Remember, the world is your scratching post—but treat it accordingly.”

As the sun set over the farm, the animals laughed and chatted, their bond stronger than ever. Sir Whiskerton lounged on his favorite sunbeam, content in the knowledge that he had once again saved the day. 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 lessons, and the enduring importance of respect and responsibility. Until next time, may your days be filled with laughter, love, and just a little bit of feline genius.

The End.

I worked in the banking industry for decades. At one time (in the 90s) my employer decided to license select individuals to sell annuities and mutual funds.

I worked hard for my licenses and was successful in my particular branch office.

One day I overheard a coworker who was a new accounts rep ( not licensed to sell investments) on the phone with a bank customer.

She was talking about renewing a CD.

Suddenly she said “hey I have a friend who has some great investments that may interested you.

Here is his number” …honestly I almost fell out of my chair.

Aside from her violating a few banking laws ( silly stuff like SIPC disclosures and FDIC rules), she was directing business away from me.

And we got along… it was weird.

I could not get to the compliance department fast enough.

Turns out she was getting a little cashola from her friend for every referral.

And here’s the nutty part: she DID NOT GET FIRED.

She got a stern talking to.

Eventually she did get fired for something else.

Ancient discoveries

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  1. You are probably living with a massive amount of debt. Now, pretty much everyone in every country has some sort of housing debt. However, in most developed countries, that’s the only debt you need. For example, Europeans don’t routinely need cars and can easily do without one in most cases (saving, about $1,000 a month). They get free education right through university, so no student debt. They’ve got universal health care, so no medical debt. They also don’t have supplementary debt from vacation homes or watercraft.
  2. You’re playing health roulette. Even if you’re insured, there’s no guarantee that if you do get seriously ill you won’t fall into debt. Michael Moore’s “Sicko” didn’t address uninsured Americans, but insured Americans who were screwed over by their insurance company, which denied coverage or claimed they had pre-existing conditions.
  3. You have virtually zero employment rights. Only about 10% of American workers are unionized, and the minimum wage is criminally low and hasn’t been raised in decades. You can be fired for no reason and there’s nothing you can do about it in the vast majority of cases. Even in Canada, there’s 30% union employment, the minimum wage is higher, there’s two weeks minimum vacation (versus zero in the US) and paid parental leave (versus not even the guarantee of unpaid leave in the United States). In Europe, things are even better – widespread parental leave, six weeks paid vacation, and higher unionization rates. For example, Sweden has no minimum wage, but unionization rates are extremely high and workers are well paid ($25 an hour at least, plus benefits).
  4. Your statistics on average salaries are skewed by high income earners. In fact, a Canadian in the the bottom four quintiles of salaries (the bottom 80% of income earners) will almost always make more than their counterparts in the United States and then won’t have health care expenses on top of that. However, the top 20% of American income earners blows away the top 20% of Canadian income earners to bring up the average.

Welcome to the U.S. Office of Personnel Management’s Retirement Operations Center in Boyers, Pennsylvania—where your federal retirement dreams go to fossilize. Buried in a limestone mine like some Cold War relic, this place processes 10,000 applications a month with all the speed of a glacier racing a tectonic plate. It’s 2025, but they’re still shuffling paper by hand, because apparently fax machines and floppy disks are too cutting-edge. The backlog’s so bad, your file might sit there longer than a fruitcake in a thrift store—untouched, unloved, and gathering dust.

The absurdity doesn’t stop at the manual labor. They’ve got 700 clerks down there, squinting at forms in a cave so damp, the paperwork’s practically growing mushrooms. Need an update? Good luck—calling their helpline is like shouting into a void that echoes back with elevator music and a pre-recorded “try again later.” Some genius decided a decommissioned mine—once used to store secret government cheese—was the perfect spot for this. Now, your retirement’s stuck in a bureaucratic bunker, guarded by stalactites and a system so outdated, it makes a carrier pigeon look like high-speed Wi-Fi.

And the delays? They’re legendary. Applications vanish into the abyss, only to resurface years later like a time capsule from a parallel dimension. One retiree’s pension got so lost, they probably found it wedged between a miner’s lunchbox and a 1970s memo about typewriters. Meanwhile, the clerks trudge on, processing files slower than a toddler counting jellybeans, while the OPM shrugs and offers parking validation—like that’s a fair trade for your twilight years. This isn’t a retirement system; it’s a geological dig site, unearthing benefits at the pace of an archaeologist brushing dirt off a dinosaur bone. By the time you get your check, you’ll be too old to spend it—or they’ll have mailed it to the wrong cave.

Retirement: Mined Over Matter – because your golden years are more likely to be unearthed by a geologist than by the OPM.

Well, You Asked For IT: A Russian Corvette Attacked a French Military Plane Over The Baltic Sea

As you may recall, a month ago, while commenting on the events in the Baltic region and the damaged submarine cables, I stated that the provocative actions of the North Atlantic Alliance against Russia could potentially trigger a new global war. Unfortunately, as time has shown, everything now happening indicates that a Global War could breakout at any moment. NATO countries’ attempts to block Russia’s access to the Baltic Sea are only exacerbating the situation in this region of the world…………………………………………………….

Yes.

A few years ago, I had an interview with Intel to be a software engineer. On my resume is a senior design project that I participated in while in college, which was in conjunction with a local engineering firm and NASA.

I was immediately asked a question about it, I explained much of what I worked on was proprietary and I signed a non-disclosure agreement, but I explained as much as I could about it without giving away any actual details.

A little later in the interview I was asked for more detail about the project, I reiterated that I could not explain any more and asked to continue with the interview.

One interviewer insisted that I expound on the project I was involved in. I stood up, and said I can’t go into anymore detail, and since they continued to ask me to do something that would be illegal, I was no longer interested in the job and left.

I received a call later on that day, and was offered the job. It was apparently a test to see if I would honor a confidentiality agreement.

Man Meddles With Nature

Written in response to: Center your story around a character who’s struggling to let go.

Daisy Tetlow

In every instance of my investigation, in my poking, in every timeline, in any tangible, traversable point, and in all my efforts, my mother always dies.Whether it was cold blooded murder, or something completely innocent to the untrained eye; driving over a speed bump triggering a brain bleed, an argument, or just a spiral of causations and effects that were lost in my chasing.I followed all such incidents, like a speck of dust through a sandstorm. And when I took the precautions, when I remembered that particular chip in that particular plate (from which my father had hacked with a steak knife) would kill by infection, I would stash it away. She would eat from something else, and then die in a mix up of prescriptions, or slip on a nail in my father’s garage.I chased these all to no end, returning only to find her dying, or dead already.The first time she died, my father had struck her with a knife, quickly, and in anger right into her stomach. She told me, as she lay dying in hospital, her face pale like ivory stone, that he had run away- in shame or in terror I do not know.She couldn’t hold down food, or lift her hands to hold mine, or squeeze my fingers when I reached for them regardless. Her face was sunken and when I pressed the doctors for more, to try some other avenue, they would look at me in a way I’m sure they did towards all persistent, stupid family members.‘I’m sorry but we have done all we can,’ they’d say, as they have in every hospital since, ‘operating now will be too invasive, and she does not have the strength to recover.’ I would get that particular look that said she is old, she is going to die, just be with her and leave me alone.A drip of some clear substance fed into her arm, and she stared at the flowers, slowly wilting on her bedside, oblivious to the coughing and groaning on either side of her curtain walls.

Her eyes went wide for just a moment, her mouth opened, I knew this was it. I had never seen death, but I knew by the contortions of her face that this was dying. I leaned forward, expecting her to turn to me, in her final moment, say something profound, or tell me then how much she loved me.

But she collapsed, like a shrunken caricature of my real mother. There was a strangle gurgling like a drainpipe.

And then she was dead.

My chair was creaking, I was still itching with this unkillable sensation of more, something else is supposed to happen, I thought. Despite seeing her, from the two absolute stages of being alive and dead, this horrid anticipation of then what?

 

Of course, I went looking for my father.

The police shrugged, maybe peered down the road where it had happened, but that was most of their investigation. I knew then nobody would be of help.

I used everything at my disposal. I tracked his cards, his phone, his bills and nothing came of it. It was, in no exaggeration of the word, like he had completely vanished. In my mother’s first death, it was as though both my parents had been killed, and I was inconsolable.

I did not know where else to look, where to predict he would be in the future.

Before I could poke through time, I lived in the dark. My tongue tasted rancid, my chin itched and flaked. For several weeks I shuddered away from everything one was supposed to do. trays of food were left for me; cousins, aunts, great-grandparents, essentially strangers who’d pass by in a breeze. Old cabbage, Turkish delights, baked pasta with stringy, under-cooked broccoli, chocolates with bursts of alcohol, and I’d shake my jaw like a dog eating medicine.

I picked at these in my hopeless despair.

I imagined my father escaping on an adventure. A satchel of belongings on a stick, hiking into the mountains, growing out a horrible, ginger beard.

But when I really considered my father, and what he must have been thinking to ruin our lives, I figured he was dead already, though I never said this out loud.

Regardless, this thought enraged me.

I could see my mother disappearing in her mortuary freezer, lying in wait for me to do something. Even then, in the time that had passed since she had died, I felt this terror that, if I were to bury her in the ground, how will she get out again?

I could not throw away her things, or move or clean anything in the house, wash the cutlery she had last used, move her shoes from the door, because she would need them again.

This spiral would send me into fits of anguish, and shadows of people would pass through the house, sometimes friends, or police with no news of my father, but I was somewhere else, hiding in a dug out waiting for someone else to do something for me.

It was impossible to rest, to close the chapter which I had not finished reading. It was not the motivation of due process, or my vagrant father climbing cliff sides which invigorated me. He had caged my mother into a realm I could not get to, and I had every intention of pulling her out. Wherever my father was, I didn’t care.

 

Despite the magnitude, or the excitement, in the human meddling of time, I have so far achieved nothing. I won’t bore you with the mechanics, the details and such. I wouldn’t ask an Olympian to teach a baby how to swim.

Sometimes an event only needs traversing backwards several seconds, in which I prevent my father’s knife with my hands, but then my mother falls backwards regardless, hitting her head and dying. I go back several minutes, leaving a pillow for her to land on.

This seemed to have worked, and as she leaves the home to buy ingredients for dinner, a pothole sends the truck flying, colliding straight into her side and she is dead long before the ambulance arrives. So I go back several days in my second attempt, destroying the knife, watching my father like a guard, and in doing so I miss my mother, driving in his car, unaware of a loose wire, a nick in the tire, a fault in the engine and dying, all events in which I have also tried to prevent.

I have even sold the car before, no doubt frustrated with me, she is forced to take a train, or a bus, or a taxi. A terrorist explodes, the train track derailed, a car bomb beside her stuck in traffic, a meteor, a gas leak- even the second hand smoking of other people, standing around her at the station, and when I am quite satisfied nothing has happened for several years, she is dead by some mass growing inside of her.

In other times, I chased back the root of the causation into such vast expanses of the past, I was struck by giant insects, unbearable heat and foreign greenery- only to get lost in finding the single event which spiraled into the death of my mother. Sometimes it is the fight between two birds, the construction of the house, the fault of one splinter poking askew in the foundations, or the face of the earth, which when the space debris falls, lands directly onto her and she dies instantaneously.

Despite my many attempts, and all the avenues I had taken, going mad in the process of derailing time, I was no closer to preventing her end as the first day she had died.

 

Ironically, in my efforts, I had ruined the finality of my own dying, the dilemma of ‘what next,’ had been lost on me, like it had become another language in which I was no longer privy in speaking.

The fear of death, and of punishment had been eradicated. The blackness of the end had been illuminated by my meddling.

But despite this thought, when I returned again to find my mother under white sheets, in an inoperable state, or perhaps buried already, this revelation mounted to nothing, and I knew less than when I started.

Of course, the stress consumed me. She must have noticed something changed about me, our relationship was now akin to a zookeeper and his tiger. I sat with her for dinner, logging the fire while we read, or watching her cut fruit into little shapes– all the while like a madman, waiting for the strike of death and for my arms to reach backwards, hoping as I did every time, to find the original cancer, and hack it off.

 

On one such instance, I had stopped death by several months, chasing back the food she must have eaten, preventing some hyperlipidemia. The details are lost to me now.

It was her birthday. It was her fifteenth fiftieth birthday, and every time, I took her to a diner to eat fat burgers and milkshakes. She liked the stereo music, but I was quite sick of the same songs by then, I had even remembered the rotation.

We picked at little conversations for a while, and I fiddled with a scrunched-up ball of used tissue in my pocket.

‘What’s next?’ She said airily, swirling her straw in the sad bit of milkshake leftover.

‘Tonight?’ I said, a cautious grin, she had never asked to go to a bar, or a club before.

‘Well, just, what are you going to do next?’

‘Next?’

She put her palms flat on the table, her eyes crinkling, one side of her face illuminated with the neon red outside, ‘What are you going to do?’

‘I don’t follow,’ I said, and I meant it.

‘You’re done with grad school, you said you hated teaching sciences, so what are you going to do?’

I sat stupidly for a moment. Too embarrassed to look at her, I didn’t remember the last time I had considered the future, what I was going to be, certainly not with the presence of death, and the work of surveillance.

I heard her laugh into a smile. ‘You know, a long time ago, I was your teacher,’ she said, not unkindly. ‘Tying your shoes, and when Spots died,’ she was looking somewhere else, speaking her thoughts, her face flushed from her birthday prosecco, ‘I didn’t understand why you were so upset but your father told me, dogs are very special. And when you die, sometimes they just starve, too sad and loyal to eat. But your father and I pushed you in the right direction and you wrote that little poem for Spots, and you buried him by yourself. And you picked the flower from my garden. I think that was the first lesson you taught yourself.’

I remember this birthday, her fifteenth fiftieth birthday, because it was the only timeline she had said this.

I sat there, staring at her in the light, her benevolent features, and could only think of all the instances she had died. Her body in so many places, at so many different times, dying or dead in ways I didn’t know were even possible. And despite how prolonged one instance might have been, as I sat watching her there, happy and nostalgic, humming to Elvis, the notion of alive, and then dead, were so inextricably different, I felt the food I had eaten swirling inside of me.

It is a blink, a space in time I couldn’t penetrate. This third point, before she is dead, but not quite when she is alive. So many of these instantaneous transitions had made the unbelievability of her death even more unexplainable than when she had first slipped away from me.

 

I drove her home that night. Her fingers wobbled when she locked the door, and she laughed at how drunk she was. I heard the door close to her bedroom and that was that.

Two months later she was dead again.

I never kept count of these things, I figured, if I did, I would set up the expectation that it would happen again, which wasn’t right. Of course, I did everything I could to implement more precautionary measures, but I never allowed myself to imagine how she would die next– it had never even occurred to me that at some point, I had to allow it to happen.

 

I remembered what she had said.

I think that was the first lesson you had taught yourself.

I felt so strung out. I left my mother in waiting again, some freezer, in the care of some doctor she was fond of. When I drove home to an empty house, I reached backwards again. A sensation hit me, I felt my stomach lurching and my hands tensing. Just as I was about to penetrate it, find whatever else had killed my mother, I felt my foot catching on the chair leg and I fell forward. I caught myself just in time to slump over on my side.

I twisted something. A pain shot up my leg like a wire all the way up to my spine. I waited it out on the floor, I felt the cool touch of the wood against my skin, which calmed my nerves and when the pain dulled into a quiet throb, I sat up feeling rather foolish.

There was a chill about the room, and I was suddenly aware of how hungry I was.

The pantry was empty, except for pancake mix, some sliced almonds, and lunchbox raisins. I didn’t know what to do with myself, I didn’t know how to keep myself clean or how to conduct myself.

I could still hear her door closing on the night of her birthday.

I realised then that I had never, in some moment of clarity, for all my mother’s deaths, I had never attended her funeral. I had never gone through any of the formalities, I had never fitted a black suit, sent out emails, checked her life insurance, or anything that follows death. I had always waded backwards through time, so much so, I was unsure of what year I was living in (until, of course, the next time she died).

Yes, I was struck by the absence of my mother, but not in any natural sense. I had never given the time to mourn, it had never crossed my mind. I had never experienced the full cycle because everything in my logical mind disagreed with the inevitability of her death. There was no formal agreement, but I understood my mother to be a permanent fixture of my life. But this wasn’t right, and as I picked at baking ingredients, and dry oats, I felt stupid.

Changing her timeline suddenly felt useless, and I was exhausted.

A wind rattled the glass and when I turned, I saw the garden outside, illuminated by the moon.

There was a large rock, surrounded by smaller, round stones, where I had buried Spots.

A childish name but I was a young boy. Besides my mother, nothing had compelled me. And yet, for no reason I can formulate, I sat on my knees where I had covered Spots in the garden soil and cried.

I could imagine his little bones, I remembered the horror I had felt as a child, and even then, I thought, wouldn’t it be better if he had never existed at all.

I considered this of my own mother, whatever this meant for my own existence, was a scientific question I never entertained– one I didn’t care for.

Under the moonlight, I pulled backwards again, snot still wobbling on my lip. I knew how far I had gone before and pushed it harder, one more time. I felt my body penetrating; my face being pulled in a gust of wind until I was somewhere else. I grabbed the tendrils of time, weaved them between my fingers like strands of hair.

 

When I opened my eyes, I felt as though I was in God’s first preconception of the earth. I seemed to be existing in a place where time didn’t exist–or didn’t matter. Cloudless, entirely shapeless, I couldn’t even describe the colours I could see.

I was in knee deep water; I waded forward until it rose to my chest. I could feel the sand under my feet, a slight sinking sensation, but not uncomfortably.

I considered what my mother might have said, or what my father would have done, thinking, again, about whether I should leave, return for a little more time. But as the water rippled like a long pelt of fur, I knew then I would end up here again.

My mother would be dead again. Perhaps by my father’s knife, or a dog bite, or a terrible gruesome accident, even by suicide–endless possibilities like a ribbon of infinity, and I couldn’t follow it any longer.

I closed my eyes as the sand licked over my face. I imagined Spots in the garden, limping with cancer, panting and giving up. I saw my mother, as she had died the first time, before my inventions, her face sunken in, how confused I was. The unimaginable finality of death, like a chill in my breath, as the ground swept beneath me.

And when I am layers deep in rock, hardened next to footprints and dead creatures, I hope the bristles don’t itch and the sun isn’t too jarring– if I can pray for so much.

Well. It might help if there were a lot more US products to consume.

Most of our exports are agricultural and our use of GMOs and glyphosate (banned in most EU countries) have made that problematic in some markets. Plus we’ve just alienated the Chinese, our biggest importer of agricultural products.

We have very little manufacturing and a lot of it is for auto makers based outside the US.

We did have a growing market for US spirits and wines, but that was in Canada and the EU which are currently boycotting US products.

Since we’ve alienated most of our allies, our defense industries are losing contracts.

Think about what’s in your home.

50 years ago nearly everything would have been made in the US, your TV is probably made in Japan or China, same with your game console, your phone? Made in China Your car? Probably German, Japanese or South Korean. Your Chevy Silverado? Made in Canada. Your Harley Davidson motorcycle? Made in Mexico. Your clothes? Probably China, India, Pakistan and Turkey. Your appliances? Germany, Japan, China or maybe India.

Nothing is made in the US.

You can’t sell what you don’t have.

In order to boost demand for US products we have to make products, products that other countries want.

Revitalizing our manufacturing sector will take time and the best way to do it would be by subsidizing small businesses and start ups and incentivizing them to keep their manufacturing operations in the US.

Wait, Trump just pretty much shut down the Small Business Administration.

So much for that idea.

Lemonade Fried Chicken

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9292f944354e41a5d4f01dcac16383a1

Ingredients

  • 6 ounces frozen lemonade concentrate
  • 1 cup water
  • 2 1/2 pounds frying chicken, cut up
  • 1/4 cup unbleached flour
  • 1 teaspoon salt
  • 1/4 teaspoon ground black pepper
  • 1 cup vegetable oil
  • 2 tablespoons butter, melted

Instructions

  1. Heat oven to 350 degrees F.
  2. Mix lemonade concentrate and water in a small bowl. Pour over chicken in larger bowl. Refrigerate for 2 hours or longer.
  3. Drain chicken and reserve liquid.
  4. Mix together the flour, salt, and pepper in a small paper bag. Add well drained chicken, one piece at a time, and shake to coat evenly.
  5. Heat oil in large skillet over moderate heat. Add floured chicken; cook until evenly browned, turning pieces over carefully.
  6. Remove chicken and arrange in a single layer in a shallow baking pan. Brush chicken with melted butter. Add reserved lemonade.
  7. Bake uncovered about 1 hour, basting chicken with lemonade from pan every 15 minutes. About 15 minutes before chicken is done, drain off excess juice from pan.
  8. Serve hot.

Let’s be clear here.

The ‘free rider’ is my 15 year old niece, who is working hard to get an education so that her taxes can keep me in incontinence pants when I’m old(er).

The ‘free rider’ is my mother, who is 84 years old, frail and suffering from dementia.

The ‘free rider’ is the guy down the street who doesn’t have legs anymore since discovering an improvised explosive device in Afghanistan.

We are all ‘free riders’ at some point in our lives.

We are people, not problems.

China vs. America: Why Americans Are Migrating to RedNote from TikTok | She’s SINGLE Magazine

Discover the eye-opening differences between China and America in this collection of viral TikTok shorts! From innovative technology to affordable lifestyles, see how Chinese culture is setting new standards. As the TikTok ban drives American users to RedNote, many are realizing just how advanced and unique China truly is.

Explore the cultural contrasts, technological advancements, and why RedNote is becoming the go-to platform for U.S. creators. Don’t miss these fascinating comparisons that are sparking conversations around the world!

Responsibility is key

Well, I happen to know a family from Raub, Pahang, a famous durian producing area in Malaysia.

The family has seen its fortunes rise in recent years with export to China, driving up prices amidst unbelievable demand growth. A single large Musang king (猫山王) can cost upwards of 500 rmb in urban china today, and qualify as presentable gifts.

According to the boss, the Chinese have started experimenting with durian plantations in hainan, but there is nothing large scale yet.

But first, let us have a sense of the numbers.

China imported >1.56m tons of durians in 2024, or $7b worth.

That requires 2-3,000 km2 of land to cultivate, or 4-5 Singapores, and 100-150k workers.

That’s a lot of land and labor, for a single crop.

Another aspect about durians is its long life cycle. Trees only enter their prime between 20-40 years before reaching the best fruit quality and yield. Few places can afford stable growing conditions for a rather fussy tree prone to wind and water damage.

Throw in the fact that durians are harvested from canopies that are 25-50m above ground and we can conclude durian as a crop is a multi-generational business demanding patience and skill.

The boss speculated that the Chinese are not cultivating durian in a big way because it is a win-win way to buy goodwill among ASEAN member states.

Methinks he has a point.

CIA Files: Labs & Bats | Revealing The Truth of The Covid-19 Pandemic | Prof.Jeffrey Sachs

https://youtu.be/uOxDDd_kWJ4

An instance I can vividly remember is a group of guys spiking another guy’s drink.

It was a typical college frat party. This guy seemed sweet, if a tad bit out of place. He was sipping on a drink from a friend of the guy who brought him along to the party. We were talking about the history class we had together when I realized his speech was getting slurry.

I assumed he had a bit too much to drink and even made a joke about it. But it was too much too soon. He got up and was really wobbly. That’s when his “friends” swooped in and took him away.

The more I thought about the friends’ behaviour, the more suspicious I got, so I went outside my roommate. We saw the guy half passed out on the sidewalk. ALONE. Now my roommate is a good egg and he quickly sprang to action. Together, we helped the guy to our place nearby where we let him crash for the night.

Now we weren’t really sure if it was just alcohol, but the next morning really confirmed it. The dude had absolutely no memory of the night after his FIRST drink. I felt so sorry for his confused state, I remember going to my room and crying.

Now, among this friend group was a guy who had flirted and shown interest in me before. He’d asked a friend of mine for my number, added me on fb, insta, etc. We talked every now and then. This was the first time I realized how dangerous this dude could be. I immediately cut off all contact with him and let everyone in my friend’s circle know.

Drugging someone is a felony. Man or woman. And men too can be victims of such vile lunacy.

Stay safe everyone.

Barneys Time

Written in response to: Write a story in which someone time-travels 25 years or more into the past.

Barney Defanfaler

Barney, “High Suzie. I’m on my way. I should get there on time.”Suzie, “Oh, Barney. You’re the keynote speaker.  You can’t be late to present our county’s sustainable development proposal.”Barney, “I know. I had to fix a flat on my bicycle.”Suzie, “OK, but hurry. I don’t want to be late. Please don’t get distracted. You know how your genius gets tangential. Bye.”Barney is peddling his clunky bicycle to Suzie’s, thinking, ‘Ah, heck, I forgot my cell phone with all my data on it. I need to let Suzie know I’ll be late,’ when he notices a phone booth. ‘Well, I’ll be. How serendipitous. I remember when these phone booths were everywhere. It’s been a while. I wonder if it even works?’ He enters the booth, ‘It really has been a while. This archaic machine only takes a dime.’Voice, “Operator assistance. Where may I direct your call?”Barney, “I need to call my girlfriend. I was just curious if this phone still works. I don’t remember an operator unless one dials zero.  If I give you her number, it will cost me more. I would prefer to direct dial to save money.”Operator, “Where may I direct your call.”Barney, “What do you mean by ‘where’?”Operator, “If you are indecisive, the speed dials are available to you.”

“Speed dials in a now-defunct piece of technology?”

“Correct, sir. Press one for New York, two for DC, three for San Francisco . . .”

“Alright, alright already. Very funny. Where is the hidden camera?”

“Where may I direct your call?”

“Alright, I’ll play.” Barney pushes three.

“Sir, please input your destination date followed by the star key.”

“OK, ‘operator’, I said I would play. I know I’m being live-streamed.”  Barney pushes 1967.

“That is an incorrect format, sir. Please consult the directory for the parameter rules.”

“But of course, parameter rules. Why did I not think of that in this now-defunct piece of technology?” He places the phone booth’s hanging directory on the stainless-steel triangular counter and opens it up to the first page.

Directions and Parameters

1.     Close door.

2.     Destination and time codes are listed in the directory or may be given verbally to the operator. The destination must be safe and available at the time of parameter input.

3.     The time parameter must be equal to or greater than 25 years from your current time frame. Future time frames are not available for this position.

4.      Input format: Time 00*00* AM (26) or PM (76), Press # to enter.

Date; 00-00-0000 Press # to enter.

5.     When traveling to off-worlds or to harsh environments, be sure to be wearing the proper survival equipment.

6.     You have one week at each destination, or you will be erased.

7.     Each person is granted three round trips.

8.     Remember your return code to reserve your place.

9.     Enjoy your trip.

Barney smiles as he scans the phone booth’s ceiling looking for the camera. “Oh, this is good. These folks went all out for this one. I love the off-world bit.”

Operator, “Where may I direct your call?”

Barney, “I’m going to keep it simple. San Francisco.”

Operator, “Where may I direct your call?”

Barney sighs, “San Francisco.”

Operator, “When may I direct your call?”

Barney has learned his lesson, “Twelve PM, April 1st, 1967.”

Operator, “Your return reservation code is 2025.”

Nothing happens.

Barney, “I knew it. I am now the laughingstock on the world wide web.”

Barney steps out the door and suddenly recalls, “1. Close the door.”

Barney, “Ah heck, I need to call Suzie. I’m going to call her direct.” Still feeling silly, he steps back inside the booth.

A man walks up, “Are you coming or going?”

Barney, “I need to make a quick call.” He shuts the folding door. Instantly, a swirling flash of rainbow-colored prismatic light engulfs him and then dissolves.

He looks out the booth window, “Holy Mother Mary n Jesus.”

Stunned, Barney walks out onto a street filled with long-haired funny looking people dressed in colorful outfits. The smell of marijuana fills his nostrils.

Barney asks a woman, “What year is it?”

Woman, “1967, silly man.”

Barney, “I’m a scientist. I need proof.” He spies a newsstand on the corner, runs over, and picks up a newspaper: “San Francisco Chronicle April 1st, 1967.” Then he looks up at a sign: Haight Ashbury Free Medical Clinic.

The shocked man strolls across the street to the park and sits down among a mass of hippies. Music fills the air with Janice Joplin, The Mamas and the Papas, and  Jimi Hendrix.

A woman sits down next to him, “Hey man, it’s the summer of love,” then hands him a joint and puts a flower in his lapel.

Barney, “Thanx, I can use that.”

Woman, “My name is Alice, Want a hit of acid.”

Barney, “No, thank you. It’s been a very strange day. I’m already on a trip.”

He then lays back, thinking, ‘This is unreal, but here I am. I am ten years old. My birthday is next month when my dad took me to the Kentucky Derby. I’ll never forget. He won on a long shot . . .”

Barney, “Hey Alice, do you like horses?”

Alice, “Yeah. I grew up with them.”

Barney, “Have any dreams?”

Alice, “I want to open a restaurant someday.”

Barney, “And you want to call it ‘Alices’, right?”

Alice, “Yes, Alices Restaurant.”

Barney, “Where you can get anything you want.”

Alice, “How did you know?”

Barney, “Want to go on a trip?”

Alice, “Sure, but I don’t want to miss the music festivals and concerts.”

Barney, “I need to get back soon, too. I’ll pay for gas.”

*

Louisville, Kentucky

Announcer, “Welcome to the Kentucky Derby.”

Barney, “There’s my dad”

Alice, “He has a kid.”

Barney, “Yeah, that’s me. Time to see if close encounters have dire consequences.”

Barney, “Howdy, Mr. Defanfaler.”

Mr. Defanfaler, “How do you know me?”

Barney, “Long story. Can I buy you a drink?”

Mr. Defanfaler, “Get out of here. You and your weird chick.”

Barney, “We need to talk.”

Mr. Defanfaler, “Why?”

Barney, “Because I want you to bet everything on Proud Clarion, not just the $100 you’re planning on.”

Mr. Defanfaler, “How do you know that? I haven’t told anyone except my son.”

Barney, “That’s what I want to talk about.”

Mr. Defanfaler, “OK, but we only have half an hour.”

*

Announcer, “Here comes Proud Clarion’s fast sprint out of the starting as expected, but can he hold it?”

Mr.  Defanfaler, “What do you think son.”

Barney, “He will win by a length, followed by Damascus.”

Announcer, “And it’s Proud Clarion by a length. Unbelievable. What an upset. But those of you crazy enough to have bet on the 30/1 longshot, go collect your reward.”

Mr. Defanfaler, “Holy mother. Now what, son?”

Barney, “Let’s go home, Dad. I need to fill you in on the rest of the plans.”

After dinner, the family sits down. Alice is playing games with little Barney.

Dad, “$300,000 dollars. What are we going to do now, son?”

Barney, “The future is dim pop. I am a scientist specializing in Environmental studies.  The Earth’s Biosphere is crashing. It’s called a Climate Crisis. Along with the next doubling of our human population, 90% of the ocean fish gone, natural disasters increasing in frequency, duration, and severity, 25% of the masses without fresh water, and pollution, to name a few. . . Well, the cumulation of these and more factors is calculated to coincide by 2050. It’s going to get ugly and unsustainable right quick.”

Dad, “What is being done?”

Barney, “That’s just it. There are many solutions, but the petrochemical industry has been fighting them for decades with disinformation campaigns and for-profit selfishness, all backed by a strong majority of Congress bought off by lobbyists.”

Dad, “So Eisenhower’s 1961 warning of the military-industrial complex came true.”

Barney, “Yes. But I have a plan. I want to set an example. An example that will cost a lot of money. Here is a list of investments. Start with Damascus winning the Preakness, Gentleman James to show at Belmont. Then go to Scotland’s Kelso racecourse for Equinoctial with a 250/1 odds to win. Those are all I can remember when you took me to them when I was ten. That’s how I knew you, and I would be here.”

Dad, “I love horse races.”

Barney, “Yes, although too much. I remember your racing gambling addiction worsened and it ruined our family. After those bets, you need to quit. Promise me.”

Dad, “OK. I promise. I trust you. I was convinced you were a nut until you showed me your unique leg scar like little Barney and your 2025 ID and currency.”

Barney, “You will have plenty of money to start investing in stocks. You will not need to gamble. Here are two guaranteed lists. One will be after the Kelso race, and another will be a few years from now. Be sure to bury the gold where we agreed.”

Dad, “I understand diversity. What’s Microsoft, Google, and Intel?”

Barney, “An information revolution is coming. Please save everything, and live comfy and simply. Send little me over there to MIT and follow his dreams again. I need to go back to San Francisco now. I have a phone booth appointment.”

*

Haight Ashbury

Barney, “Here is more than enough for your restaurant Alice. Say howdy to Arlo for me.”

Alice, “Thank you so very much.”

Barney enters the phone booth.

Operator, “Please enter your reservation code.”

Operator, “2025 is correct. Where may I direct your call?”

Barney, “Asheville, North Carolina.”

Barney opens the folding door, “Wow, an electric bicycle. That is a nice change.” He jumps on and zooms off towards the county council meeting. On the way, he stops by his bank to check his balance.

Barney continues on his way to the County Council meeting, wondering, ‘What happened to my dad’s investments? There should be more. A lot more.”

Suzie, “What took you so long? It’s all I could do due to stall . . .”

Mayor Hornburger bangs his gavel, “The county meeting is in session. First on the agenda is Barney Defanfaler.”

Barney, “Ladies and gentlemen. The proposal before you is a sustainable future plan for our children.”

Councilwoman Sherry Jones, “I agree this outline is idealistic but far beyond this county’s financial ability.”

Barney, “I understand, although if the council agrees to the plan, I am willing to make substantial investments in the infrastructure.”

Mayor Hornburger, “What do you want in return?”

Barney, “My goal for implementing this design is to set an example of how any small city and surrounding agricultural county can transform and evolve. We owe it to our children to build a sustainable environment for their future survival.”

Mayor, “I can agree to a planning and financial assessment if the council agrees.”

Councilwoman Sherry: ” If you are all in favor of having our treasurer and engineers do a financial and feasibility study on Mr. Defanfalers’ sustainability action plan, please raise your hands.”

Councilwoman, “OK. The proposal will go forward for study.”

Barney and Suzie exit the county courthouse.

Suzie, “What was that with all the donations talk. You don’t have that kind of money.”

Barney, “I can’t explain easily right now. I need to go and fix a problem. Can we have dinner tonight?”

Suzie, “Sure. My place around six?”

Barney, “Perfect. I’ll see you then.” He jumps on his e-bike and zooms off, leaving Suzie puzzled.

*

Operator, “Please enter your reservation code.” Barney enters 2025.

Operator, “Welcome back, Barney. You have two round-trip calls left. Where may I direct your call?”

Barney, “Louisville, Kentucky.”

Operator, “When may I direct your call?”

Barney, “May 5th 1967 at 7AM.” The booth fills with a familiar swirling prismatic rainbow of light.

Barney steps out and runs off to the Kentucky Derby. At this point we best differentiate him as Barney-3.

Barney-3, “Hi Barney. Hi Alice.”

Barney-2, “Holy Mother and Mary!”.

Barney-3, “Yeah, right. Everything did not work out with what you are going to do today. Dad relapsed from his gambling addiction somewhere before 2025. I . . . or you, whatever the case may be, need to fix the bank savings accounts so they are safe until little Barney-1 becomes of age. After college?”

Barney-2, “Sounds good. When my . . . our moral character matured.”

Barney-3, “We did develop a responsible character, becoming an Eagle Scout. Then, at college, we realized our responsibility, as Kennedy said, ‘Ask not . . .”

Barney-2, “Right. I’ll get a lawyer to draw up some documents before I leave.”

Barney-3, “Okeedokee. Sounds like a plan. I need to get back to Asheville and explain all this to Suzie over dinner.”

Barney-2, “My Suzie?”

Barney-3, “Yes, No? Heck, I have no idea. I was you when I left anyway.”

Barney-2, “Or perhaps little Barney with my . . . our Dad right now.”

Barney-3, “Well, there was only one of us when I returned the first time so somehow it all gets fixed.”

Alice, “You two are tripping me out. Who needs drugs hangin with you guys?”

Barney-2, “Have you thought about parallel worlds?”

Barney-3, “No, but how could that be if we were all here today?”

Barney-2, “It was all mathematical theory till we hoped a ride in the crazy phone booth. See ya.”

Barney-3, “I hope not.” The two reach out to shake hands, then stop.

Barney-2, “We best not. I believe we pushed the close encounter thing far enough.”

Barney-3 “Right. That’s a scary thought.”  The two laugh and go their separate ways.

Alice remains, “Which Barney am I with?”

Barney-2, “Me. Lets go.”

*

Five years later

Mayor Hornburger, “I’m pleased to see the progress made over the last two years. Today we celebrate the five years of our suburban and inner-city infrastructure upgrades. Suburban homes have grid-tied solar arrays. Downtown buildings are renowned worldwide for their exterior walls of hanging plants for structural cooling and oxygen generation. Runners love the carbon monoxide-free atmosphere. Markets are within an easy walk or bike, making a healthier population noted in last month’s medical journal. USA mayors visit to learn from our esteemed city. Now for our street engineer, Barry Burns.”

Barry, “I am happy to announce the completion of our city streets and renewable energy-powered transportation system. The changes were initially balked at but are now praised by locals and visitors. Downtown is free of vehicles except electric street cars. The suburban to city-isolated bicycle and pedestrian tree-lined paths have brought out cyclists who had never felt comfortable peddling alongside automobiles.”

Mayor, “Now for our county agriculture chief, Billy White.”

Billy White, “I am excited that our farming community was so receptive to the county subsidies and UNC agriculture experts’ guidance for transitioning their fields to grow a vast number of organic vegetable produce, dairy, and animal products. The county-to-city infrastructure is in its final year of completion to aid the electric semi-truck transportation to move the local produce and animal products to Asheville’s local food stores and open markets.”

Mayor, “We transitioned from a gas-fired powerplant when Barney Defanfaler gave us the generous donation for a Westinghouse 4th generation Small Modular Reactor. Initially, our most controversial transition to a Low Carbon Footprint community, the implementation went smoothly after the efficacy and safety concerns were understood. The sodium-cooled model keeps our new River Wildlife corridor unaffected, unlike the 1st generation water-cooled Nukes.”

The evening’s celebration of Asheville’s evolution into a sustainable community is in full swing. The attendees vie for a word with one of the nation’s wealthiest, most generous and foresightful man.

Newsmonth reporter, “Mr. Defanfaler, I believe everyone around the world is wondering why you would put your hard-earned dollars into a venture that gives you no return on your investment.”

Barney, “My billions were not hard work but initially from a few lucky wins and the stock market, neither of which is work at all. Other billionaires are running to Mars and the moon or hiding in massive underground bunkers and leaving humanity stranded on the surface of a dying planet. My mission has been for the masses, the little people.”

Newsmonth, “Why did you develop a community with the lowest Carbon Footprint for any industrialized city worldwide when the contribution has little impact on total global CO2 emissions?”

Barney, “It is easy to build a sustainable community from scratch. It was a complex task to transform and evolve an existing community. Technology has existed for quite some time, but integrating it into a city and surrounding agricultural farmland was a challenge. I wanted to show it could be done as an example for other cities to follow.”

Jerry of NCB, “What was your biggest challenge?”

Barney, “Education. We had a year of local-focused education, predominantly science, taught by our high school teens. They made the basics simple and understandable. Once folks understood basic science, it was a small step for them to see our closed terrarium, Biosphere Earths crisis.  Debunking lies and disinformation campaigns, rampant on social media, was another challenge. I give credit to our teens; they are the heroes that turned this community around to work for the common good.”

Suzie, “Sadly, the effects of Earth’s climate crisis had to get so bad; it could no longer be greenwashed by the petrochemical industry or ignored as isolated to East Coast hurricanes, Midwest droughts, and floods. Perhaps the LA fires will be a wake-up call for other communities.”

Barney, “Folks came to realize and accept that the human species is the cause of this tangled web of an interdependent multifactorial set of issues resulting in our homes crisis. They took responsibility as individuals, folks who set an example of personal lifestyle changes led others to join in, and the movement grew.”

The recession in 2008, aka Great Recession, was triggered by the bursting of the US housing bubbles, and the subsequent financial crisis, triggered by the collapse of the value of MBS (mortgage backed securities), and the values of the derivatives linked to them. It was caused by clever financial engineering by the financial sector.

In October 2008, Congress authorized TARP (Troubled Asset Relief Program), a $700 billion bailout package for US banks. The amount invested was almost $450 billion. $250 billion went to stabilize the banking system. Every national bank underwent a stress test, and to make sure there was no stigmatization of strength and weakness, every one of them was obliged to accept a specified amount of government investments or bailout money.

NBER (National Bureau of Economic Research) declared the recession began in December 2007 and ended in June 2009.

The economic cost was heavy, especially for Main Street. Real GDP fell and took a few years to recover to its pre-crisis level. Household net worth fell sharply from lower stock market and housing prices. Several million householders lost their homes. Estimated job losses were 8.6 million. Unemployment peaked at 10% and only recovered to the pre-crisis level of under 5% in 2016.

The recession spread to South America and Europe. Asia was less affected.

China continued its growth +9.7% in 2008 and +9.4% in 2009. Its fiscal stimulus of 4 trillion yuan ($586 billion) provided the lifeline to the world economy. Its heavy purchase of US Treasuries was a lifeline to the US, helping its recovery. These came about from the visit by Henry Paulson, US Treasury Secretary, to China to seek its help.

China’s holdings of US Treasuries surged to over $600 billion in 2008. It was the single largest foreign holder of US Treasuries. These continue to rise, pushing to $1 trillion by the end of the decade in 2010.

Joe Dirt: Joe Dirt Thinks Jill Might Be His Sister (Clip) | truTV

Taiwan is a province of the People’s Republic of China.

According to the plan, the Beijing-Taiwan high-speed train will open in 2035.

Considering that China’s longest cross-sea bridge, the Hong Kong-Zhuhai-Macao Bridge, took 9 years to complete, Taiwan separatists have little time left to face reality.

Yesterday, the PLA conducted military exercises against Taiwan, the scale of which was unprecedented, but no mainland media made it public, nor was it reported in Taiwan’s news, indicating that cross-strait reunification has entered a new stage.

Maybe one day, the News Broadcast will suddenly announce that a gala to celebrate the complete reunification of the motherland will be broadcast tonight, and you will know that the outcome is decided.

Sir Whiskerton and the Valley Chicks: A Tale of Chaos, Clucks, and California Dreams

Ah, dear reader, prepare yourself for a tale of clucking chaos, valley girl antics, and one very determined cat who saved the farm from a feathery fiasco. Today’s story is one of youthful exuberance, misguided schemes, and the importance of responsibility. So, grab your sunglasses and a smoothie (because, like, totally), as we dive into Sir Whiskerton and the Valley Chicks: A Tale of Chaos, Clucks, and California Dreams.


The Arrival of the Valley Chicks

It all began on a sunny morning, just as the farm was waking up to the gentle clucking of Doris the Hen and her entourage. But something was different. A new group of chicks had hatched, and they were unlike any chicks the farm had ever seen. These chicks, with their fluffy feathers and oversized bows, strutted around the barnyard like they owned the place.

“Oh my gosh, like, this place is so totally rustic,” one of the chicks chirped, flipping her feathers with a dramatic flair.

“I know, right?” another chick replied, adjusting her tiny sunglasses. “It’s, like, totally giving me farm-chic vibes.”

Doris the Hen clucked in exasperation. “What in the name of cluck is going on here? Who are these… these… valley chicks?”

“Valley chicks!” Harriet echoed, tilting her head.

“Chicks!” Lillian added, fainting dramatically onto a pile of hay.

Sir Whiskerton, perched on the barn roof, observed the scene with a raised eyebrow. “Valley chicks, you say? This is most unusual.” He leapt down from the roof and approached the group, his monocle glinting in the sunlight. “Ahem. Welcome to the farm, young ladies. I am Sir Whiskerton, the resident detective and problem solver. May I inquire as to your intentions?”

The lead chick, who called herself Tiffany, fluffed her feathers and smiled. “Oh, like, hi there. We’re just, like, totally here to, you know, like, help out and stuff. But, like, don’t worry, we’ve got this.”

Sir Whiskerton’s tail flicked with skepticism. “Help out, you say? Very well. But I must warn you, the farm is a place of hard work and responsibility. It’s not all sunshine and smoothies.”

Tiffany giggled. “Oh, like, totally. We’re, like, so ready for this. Right, girls?”

The other chicks nodded in unison, their bows bobbing. “Totally!” they chirped.


The Valley Chicks Take Over

At first, the valley chicks’ presence was harmless. They fluttered around the barnyard, chirping about the latest trends and gossiping about the other animals. But soon, their “help” began to cause problems.

“Oh my gosh, like, this feed is so totally boring,” Tiffany said, inspecting the chicken feed. “Let’s, like, spice it up a bit.”

Before anyone could stop her, Tiffany and her friends began mixing the feed with random ingredients they found around the farm—berries, flowers, and even a few shiny buttons they thought would “add some sparkle.”

The results were disastrous.

“Cluck!” Doris squawked, tasting the new feed. “What is this abomination?!”

“Abomination!” Harriet echoed, spitting out a button.

“Sparkle!” Lillian added, fainting dramatically onto a pile of hay.

The other animals weren’t faring much better. Rufus the Dog ate a mouthful of the sparkly feed and immediately started sneezing. Porkchop the Pig tried to eat the berries but ended up with a stomachache. Even Bessie the Tie-Dye Cow mooed in distress after tasting the floral concoction.

Sir Whiskerton frowned, his tail flicking with concern. “This is most unacceptable. The valley chicks’ ‘help’ has turned into a full-blown disaster. We must put a stop to this before the entire farm is in chaos.”


Mr. Wigglesworth’s Plan

Just as Sir Whiskerton was about to intervene, Mr. Wigglesworth, the well-meaning but bumbling pig, trotted over. “Fear not, my friends!” he declared, striking a dramatic pose. “I, Mr. Wigglesworth, shall straighten things out!”

Sir Whiskerton raised an eyebrow. “And how, pray tell, do you intend to do that?”

Mr. Wigglesworth grinned. “Simple! I shall teach the valley chicks the importance of responsibility through a series of fun and educational activities. They’ll be model farm citizens in no time!”

Before Sir Whiskerton could protest, Mr. Wigglesworth gathered the valley chicks and led them to the barn. “Alright, ladies,” he said, clapping his hooves together. “Today, we’re going to learn about teamwork and farm management. First up: organizing the feed!”

The chicks chirped excitedly, eager to impress. But as Mr. Wigglesworth explained the task, his plan quickly went awry.

“Okay, so, like, we’re supposed to sort the feed into different bins, right?” Tiffany asked, holding up a handful of grain.

“Exactly!” Mr. Wigglesworth said, beaming. “But let’s make it fun. How about we add some… flair?”

The chicks squealed with delight and began decorating the feed bins with feathers, glitter, and ribbons. But in their enthusiasm, they accidentally mixed up the feed, creating an even bigger mess.

“Oh no!” Mr. Wigglesworth cried, realizing his mistake. “This is not what I had in mind!”


The Farm in Chaos

The valley chicks’ “flair” quickly spread across the farm. The feed bins were a disaster, the animals were confused, and even the farmer was scratching his head in bewilderment.

“What in the name of cluck is going on here?” Doris squawked, flapping her wings in frustration.

“Cluck!” Harriet echoed, trying to peck at the glittery feed.

“Glitter!” Lillian added, fainting dramatically onto a pile of hay.

Sir Whiskerton, observing the chaos from the barn roof, knew it was time to take action. “Enough is enough,” he said, leaping down to the ground. “This farm cannot function under such disorder. I shall restore order and teach these valley chicks a lesson in responsibility.”


Sir Whiskerton’s Solution

Sir Whiskerton gathered the valley chicks in the barnyard, his expression stern but not unkind. “Ladies,” he began, “while your enthusiasm is commendable, your actions have caused chaos on the farm. It’s time to learn the importance of responsibility.”

The chicks looked at each other, their feathers drooping. “But, like, we were just trying to help,” Tiffany said, her voice trembling.

Sir Whiskerton nodded. “I understand. But helping requires more than good intentions. It requires thoughtfulness and care. Now, let’s clean up this mess together.”

Under Sir Whiskerton’s guidance, the valley chicks began to sort the feed properly, carefully separating the grains, berries, and flowers. They worked diligently, their valley girl chatter replaced by focused determination.

“Wow, like, this is actually kind of fun,” one of the chicks said, carefully placing a handful of grain into the correct bin.

“Totally,” another chick agreed. “It’s, like, so satisfying to see everything in its place.”

As the chicks worked, the other animals watched in amazement. Even Mr. Wigglesworth, who had been wringing his hooves in worry, couldn’t help but smile. “Well, I’ll be,” he said. “It seems Sir Whiskerton has worked his magic once again.”


The Moral of the Story

As the farm returned to normal, the animals reflected on the day’s events.

The moral of the story, dear reader, is this: Responsibility is key. While enthusiasm and creativity are important, they must be balanced with thoughtfulness and care. The valley chicks learned that helping out requires more than just good intentions—it requires a willingness to listen, learn, and work together. And through it all, Sir Whiskerton’s leadership reminded everyone that even the most chaotic situations can be resolved with patience and determination.


A Happy Ending

With the farm back in order, the valley chicks gathered for a celebratory smoothie (made with farm-fresh berries, of course). They had learned their lesson and were eager to prove themselves as valuable members of the farm.

“Like, thanks for teaching us, Sir Whiskerton,” Tiffany said, raising her smoothie in a toast. “We’re, like, totally ready to be responsible farm chicks now.”

Sir Whiskerton adjusted his monocle and smirked. “I’m glad to hear it. Remember, the farm is a place of hard work and teamwork. But it’s also a place of friendship and fun—when done responsibly.”

As the sun set over the farm, the animals gathered for a feast, their laughter filling the air. Sir Whiskerton lounged on his favorite sunbeam, content in the knowledge that he had once again saved the day. 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 lessons, and the enduring importance of responsibility. Until next time, may your days be filled with laughter, love, and just a little bit of feline genius.

The End.

Determination to make the change and stop the present “living environment”. It takes a lot of will power, nose to the grind-stone, and true determination to make the change!

Some progressed very quickly, and some progressed very slow. Bottom line is this: DON’T LIKE THE RUT YOU ARE CURRENTLY END? SOMETIMES MAKING THAT HUGE STEP FORWARD OUT OF YOUR COMFORT ZONE CAN END IT ALL!

Yes, one might slip and fall, but it’s how quickly you get back up on your feet and move forward that counts! Life is never “fair”, one may have to battle their way up!

One young man, he went through a divorce (and it was nasty, and yes, I side with this gentleman). His wife “dumped him” for a rich guy and took the kids and lied (making stories) about why “he” should not be given visitation rights, and later, sign his kids off (because her rich 2nd husband was adopting them).

He lapsed into drugs and alcohol after his long time employer shut down for good. He couldn’t find any employment which he was an expert at. He did try other jobs, wounding up quitting because he wasn’t happy. He lapsed into the world of “WOE IS ME”.

The Police Officer decided to drop him off at the Mission Home, he really didn’t want to haul him off to jail again to sober up. Since I was there (a director) decided to accept him and proceeded with the intake. Something inside of me was telling me that “this guy’s fed up, and he’s trapped.”

Instead of the usual proceedings, I decided to take him under my wing. Instead of the usual Mission Home Food, I told him to take a shower, grab some clothes (they’re on the rack, if it fits, you can take) and some shoes. Grab a clean Under T-Shirt (tank top) if you want to, a clean underwear and pair of socks. I handed him the (Motel size) soap, comb, shampoo, conditioner, toothpaste, a choice of toothbrush (soft, med, hard) and small travel size shaving lotion, disposable razor blade, and deodorant. Handed him the bath towel, washcloth, and a hand towel, with instructions to toss the towels and wash cloth in the hamper, and to drop the razor blade in the disposable box. (One time use only – all participants will be inspected upon exit.)

He went in, and was taking a very long time. I knocked on the door, and he opened it (yes, he was dressed, and he was struggling trying to comb his knotted hair with that “plastic comb”). I then said “Would you like a hair cut? I cut hair.”

His eyes beamed, and said “YES! PLEASE!”

I then led him to the back room (very small), unlocking the box, tossing him a plastic (disposable) cape, used the clothes pin to secure it. I asked him “How would you like it cut?”

He just said “Short as possible, but I love my hair!”

I pointed to the photos – (they were taped on the wall) and he said “I like this one, but….” Which I said “No buts about it. I can do just that. I’m not a licensed Barber, but I do cut hair for the underprivileged children and homeless people, voluntarily.”

I grabbed the scissors and cut those long locks (they were down half way to his back), teasingly asking him “Do you want to save your locks?” Which he glared at me and said “(bleep) NO!” Proceeded with his hair and his countenance changed, he was now smiling. And began to finally talk. That was how I learned about his divorce, bitter over losing his 2 children, losing it all, except for his truck; then his company he worked for closed down for good. All of his struggles for the next 9 years! How he was in and out for being a vagrant. I then said “What happened to your truck?” He said “Was a piece of sh!t, he removed the tag and VIN off of it and abandoned it at a dump area.”

Then his hair was done, and I was going to trim his beard, which he said “Can you make it look like that?” (It’s a beard, that’s about between a 5′O’clock or Stubble beard.) So I proceeded, then he said “Can I do my own mustache?” I pushed the cart over, and he sat there, trimming his mustache. Not too thick and not too thin either.

He was happy as a lark, then I pulled the old shop vac and told him “You have to clean this up.” And taking all the equipment to stabilizer, and cleaned the clippers out. He then said “Where’s the Lysol?” I looked at him quizzed fashion, and he said “Lysol? The disinfectant?” I then said “over there in the janitor’s closet” and he went and pulled out a mop, a small bucket, and put hot water in it. He didn’t stop at shop vacuuming the floor, he CLEANED IT COMPLETELY UP! Mopped the floor, cleaned the mirrors, the counter, the chair, even oiling the chair – rearranged the photos (I admit, they were slapped on haphazardly, not by me, but the previous Directors or employees), and put them in Order and took a Sharpie pen and wrote Numbers on the images. Men with men, women with women, children with children. Then proudly said “I’m done!”

I thanked him, he was the first person that actually went beyond; then I asked “Are you hungry?” He responded “Could eat a horse!” I then said “Come with me, we’re going to a restaurant.” We went to Sambo’s (at that place was 24 hours), and I told him “Eat what you want. But if you’ve not eaten in a long time, don’t order so much, and eat slowly. It’s not good for your body to hoard food.” He ordered a Denver Omelet, Hashbrowns, 2 Pancakes, Grits, and coffee. I just had 2 eggs, bacon, and grits with my coffee.

Throughout that time, since we were seated at the counter instead of the usual table (bench or chairs). I began asking him piles of questions (particularly in the line of work and what he could do). A regular was there for his morning usual, was seated next to him. He was a well-do guy, and he then interrupted and began asking this guy piles of questions! (I backed off, because after when I looked at the vehicle (Company Truck) – I knew this guy might hire him.)

Then this guy “excused himself” and told him “I will be right back.” He was standing outside with his mobile phone, talking to someone, and I immediately told him “You might have a job! I was eavesdropping because of all things, I’m sitting right here next to you!” The Waitress laughed and said “I heard it all too!” and she went on to say “That guy’s the owner of xxxx business, he does a lot of contracting work for commercial business, he’s loaded.” [Neither one of them knew I knew who that guy was, he often stopped by to pick up men for daily labor, daily pay, with their Company Van – taking them to and from the location.]

He then said “May I be excused, I need to use the restroom.” I told him, “Go ahead…” He then said “Do you have a hair brush? I need to borrow it.” I handed him my hairbrush, and I figured he was going to “doll himself up even more.”

Then that guy returned and thought that guy left. I told him “No sir, I think he went to the bathroom to doll himself up some more.” Since we were done, he moved his plate and coffee over next to me and asked about this guy (getting more information) which I disclosed it to him.

He returned from the bathroom, handing me my hairbrush, thanking me. Then this guy said “move us over there” (To the bench – table). She did. We all sat down, and he said “I’m waiting for xxxx to show up.” All of a sudden, this huge guy (he had to be about 6′9″ and full of muscles), nice and tanned, had a mean-expression on his face. Walked in, and the owner saw him and summoning him to the table.

He then said “This is xxxx and you are what again?” The guy stated his name. We’re looking for a solid foreman, we have a bunch of lazy-a$$ed idiots over there. (XXXX) can’t be everywhere at the same time. I have 3 projects going on, and I want you to oversee the project #2. He will take you with him, and you’ll get to know who’s the company employees and who’s the daily labor/daily pay. He will tell you how to get it all done. And so, where are you staying.”

HIM: I’m homeless, Cop took me to this place, something I think, Mission home? (Looking at me.)
ME: Correct. I will have a bed and room assigned to you when I return.
XXXXX: (looking very puzzled) You’re homeless?
HIM: Yeah, unfortunately. Don’t even have a vehicle anymore, it was a piece of sh!t and I removed the VIN and tag off of it, and dumped it in the dumping grounds.
OWNER: We have a company truck, once XXXX says you’re ready, you can use that.
HIM: Thanks! (pulls out his wallet and became worried) Uh Oh!
XXXXX: What?
HIM: It will expire 2 months on my birthday!
OWNER: You’ll be fine!
HIM: yeah but it expires in 2 months.
ME: Don’t worry about that right now, it’s still good!
HIM: Expires on my birthday in 2 months.
XXXXX: We heard that like a thousand times already, you still have time!
HIM: Yeah but I didn’t know it will expire 2 months on my birthday!
OWNER: Do you have an SS Card with you?
HIM: (pulling it out from his wallet)
OWNER: Let me take that and your license, I will swing by at the job site and give it back along with the employment papers for you to sign. If not me, then XXXX, the HR will come out.
HIM: (nervous)
ME: It’s okay, I know who they are.
HIM: Wait? What? You guys know each other? (Surprised)
OWNER: Of course, we pick up the boys at where you’re staying.
XXXXX: Yeah, some of them can be lazy-a$$holes!
HIM: But I haven’t even been there 24 hours yet, and I’ve got a job? (truly surprised) And no one even said I was hired?
OWNER: You’re hired!
HIM: Gee, thanks Mister!
OWNER: Waitress? Give me their bill – I’ll pay it.

Which both of us thanked him.

He went off with XXXX and I returned back to the Mission Home, and the Assistant Director was there, and I told him “That room xx-xx is reserved for xxxx, absolutely no one can go in, and provide him the key.” Assistant Director is scrambling to find the papers, until I said “I hadn’t gotten that far yet!” (laughing). He was being a snot and accusing me of “breaking the rules”, and I said “Rules are made to be broken sometimes, this is an exception. I am taking him under my wing for the process.”

Normally, we only house for 2 weeks and they’re required to take classes, having a Counselor, and a progress monitoring sheet to be filled out.

I had an “Exceptions Ruling” on this guy – xxxxx

He was hired, and he had the Company Truck; some of the men there didn’t like him too well (because he made them WORK, and wouldn’t tolerate laziness or being sloppy). When his first paycheck came, I took him to the bank, where he opened his account. I suggested strongly that he have a Savings account and Checking account.

It was a real struggle especially on the weekends (all construction is halted on weekends for on Saturdays, the Inspectors would inspect – weather permitting, if bad weather, no one returns until the Inspection was complete.) He was lapsing back to Alcohol, he was really struggling. He just wanted one drink and wound up one after another after another until he was wasted.

Most of them will require you to attend to AA meetings, but not with me → I took him in for private one on one guidance (not counseling but rather a life-long goals). I wrote on a Cardboard. GOAL 1, GOAL 2, and GOAL 3.

His first goal was to get his own place. His second goal was to stop drinking. His third goal was to focus on his future. After TWO MONTHS of being in the mission home, he found an apartment; however, I discouraged it. When he asked WHY – I said here’s your chart. Goal 1 – all green check marks alongside with Goal 3, unfortunately see Goal 2? All these Red X’s?

He just sunk in the chair. He whined “There’s nothing to do after work’s over with.” I then said “there’s plenty to do after work’s over!” Which he responded “Like what?”

ME: Okay, this weekend, I want you back here Friday night, do not stop at any bars. Go shower and go to bed. I will come here at 8 AM in the morning.
HIM: And?
ME: You will soon see!

I had contacted another Charity Agency that houses troubled youths; I said “I’m going to bring someone with me, and I want to see how well he does with the kids.”

Come Saturday morning, he met up with me in the office and grabbed my red marker and put an “X” on there – he stopped at a bar and limited himself to two beers only and get back! I smiled, took a white out and made it a half of an “X”. So it looked like >.

I gave him credit for self-control. Then he jumped into my car, and kept asking me “Where are we going?” I didn’t tell him, until we were about 5 miles away …. “We’re going to a place where these teenagers are “problem” and “troubled” kids. They’re all good kids, but can’t see outside of the box, They’ve been arrested for vandalism, theft, drugs or alcohol. I want you to be their friend, to see if you can knock some sense into their heads.”

He just went “completely blank.” His face just focused out the car windshield, never said a word until we arrived. Then we went through the security gates. (I have a badge, but he had to have a guest pass.)

He saw kids playing basketball, and suddenly a fight broke out, he was already in action, went up before the Assigned Counselors did (which I waved them off as I wanted to see what he would do) and he pulled those two apart and dealt with them, and immediately said ‘NOW I WANT YOU BOTH PLAYING NICELY! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?’ Both boys said “yes Sir!”

Without him even realizing, that hours passed on, he even had assigned a basket ball team, 6 by 6. Shirts and Shirtless. He was being a Referee, and it was a good game, there were other kids who sat along the court watching the game. One of the assigned counselor handed him a whistle. And the next thing you heard was the HORN BLOWING.

11 O’Clock, everyone got up very quickly – had to stand in line, getting ready to wash up and for lunch.

HIM: (walking back to me) Hey! Those kids just want to have fun! They’ve got to learn to play fair and square. Can’t take this name calling, which I’ve called them out for it.
ME: You are doing very well.
HIM: These kids can’t be troublemakers, or problem kids.
ME: But they are.

Next thing you knew, he learned about the children, and he was assigned to those “worst repeat offenders” – two of them he dealt with that Saturday morning. He actually looked forward to Saturday mornings, became a full time volunteer → but still stuck at the Mission Home! *GRINS* While he paid rent, I wanted to see those “Red” X’s or Half “>” eliminated.

The kids there began calling xxxx “COACH”. From there, he decided to enroll these boys – two teams (per the age group) to the youth basket ball program, where they play against other teams. The Uniforms were donated (by the City). He was NOT an easy person to get by with. He was almost like a “2nd Father”, when he was about to lose 3 boys (their terms were finished). He left them with this message:

‘REMEMBER ALL THINGS I’VE TAUGHT YOU, I DO NOT WANT TO SEE YOU EVER IN HERE AGAIN!’

By this time, he had sufficient enough money to actually BUY a home. At that time, the program he was involved was going under (no more financial support). There was this particular black (Egyptian-African American) boy, whom he was working with (his parents died, then he was turned over to his Uncle and Aunt, then the Aunt divorced his Uncle, and his Uncle wound up in prison; then he was tossed over to his elderly grandma who was nothing but heart-aches for his grandma.) wanted to foster him.

He then told me in the office, (The Project was complete and a new one would come forth within the next few weeks) on this rainy, horrible day. He didn’t even knock, he just walked in, sat down and after when I got done with the phone call; stated “Help me find a house, I want a 3 bedroom house. I want to foster or adopt xxxx”.

I admired his determination, so I grabbed another cardboard and wrote “GOAL 1, GOAL 2, GOAL 3”.
Goal 1: Find a house (he wrote) and I wrote “mortgage approval” Goal 2: Foster xxxx. I wrote “must be qualified” Goal 3: Quit drinking altogether – which I wrote “100%”.

I contacted several Realtor Friends of mine, and in fact, they had quite a few homes, but what was he qualified for – I told them that I’m going to take him down for that. In the horrible weather, one of the Realtor Friend of mine, he was bored, and had several properties that he might be interested in. They’ve been his major PITA (Pain in the a$$) and the banks had been pressuring him to get rid of it. They were all “Fixer Uppers” wanted us to meet him in an hour at the Realty business.

What did this guy do? Call his grandma and get xxx on the phone (I had the speaker phone on) and I heard the guy blasting curses. Then he told his grandma, that xxxx’s is on the phone and if he didn’t get his a$$ on the phone he will personally drive over and smash his face!! (Yup, he said that.)

The kid went to the phone and said “Whose dis?” And he snapped at him and told him to apologize to his grandma, and he was going to be there in about 10 minutes to pick him up. And he then said ‘Wha’ fo’…” And he said “Going house shopping….” Almost immediately he said “Cool” and (click).

I’ve never met this kid, but once I got there, the first thing the kid said “Yo’ dude, yo ain’t tol’ me ya hadda wife?” He said “Not a wife, my director…” and asked the Grandmother if he apologized for his attitude. She said “huh?” And he yelled at that kid for “disrespecting his grandma and to apologize immediately…” then handed his grandma his business card and wrote his mobile number and if he acted up or mouthed off – “YOU CALL ME, 24/7! Day or night!”

The kid sulked, and he had him to sit in the middle and we headed over to the Real Estate owner’s office. From there, he said “I know Sharon, and I know she’ll tell you to take this house, the first one we go to, but we will see others.”

In the pouring rain, with no signs of letting up. I made a comment “I’m glad it’s pouring rain, this gives me the opportunity to inspect the roofs…”

The first place we went to, a bank foreclosure → Yard was in deplorable shape. My friend (Realtor) said “we’re going through the garage.” (No lock boxes.) In fact, there wasn’t any “For Sale sign” posted either. Once the rain let up, we ran and he opened the garage door, went to the work bench and grabbed a flat head and was able to pry the side garage door open.

There was some stuff left behind by the previous owners. The musky smell made its presence. I asked “How long has this been sitting here?” Realtor: “Going on 16 years…” ME: “How much is owed on it.” Realtor: “I think about 20 grand or so….” I was a bit concerned, because the neighborhood was above middle class.

While they explored the house, the black kid already said “This room’s mine!” I laughed to overhear xxx say “No, that’s the master bedroom, and the master always belongs to the adult!” While they walked through, the kid tried to turn the TV on (old Solid State) and said “Dammit! The TV’s broken!” and was about to kick the screen, until I pulled him back and said “There’s no power.” The Swimming pool was in dire need of being cleaned, green and there were tadpoles swimming about. Rain wasn’t helping either.

We were done and the rain came tumbling down, harder than ever. But the kid was too busy exploring the house. I pulled my friend over and asked him “Why no takers? Is there also another mortgage on the property too?” Realtor had no idea.

Then xxxx came up, remarking. “I believe I will take this property as is.” I laughed and said “It’s the only way you can, because everything you see stays, and you will be responsible to dispose of what you didn’t want. If Hot water tank is shot, you have to replace it, same goes with this (refrigerator), that (range), and that… appliances.”

I spied the ladder and went up to inspect the attic, the roof was sound, as it was tile roof. Then the rain suddenly stopped, I went outside battling with overgrown weeds, shrubs, to take a better look at the roof. It was just fine, although the backyard gutters were collapsed (half of it to the ground and the other was pulling away). Inspected the soffit which seemed to be fine.

xxxx had already made his mind up, he’s taking this house. I told him let’s look at others, and nope, he wanted that one. Realtor said “Sometimes looking at other homes, might benefit you.” I added “I will do some research on this property.”

The black boy hesitated to leave with us, he wanted that house and he was going to stay here. Even stating “Grandma can live in that room, you can live in your stupid master, and I will sleep here.” xxxx then chimed in “Your grandma already has a house! It’s my house. I make the decision!”

We saw three others and all they could talk about was that first house. One property we didn’t even get out to look, it wasn’t worth a septic tank full of crap!

They dropped me off and I went to my office to do some research, and the Realtor (whom I know has big rapport with Banks and Mortgages)… they went to deal with a mortgage.

In my head, I was calculating the overhead cost plus the small mortgage, plus additional stuff – taxes, etc. Keeping in mind, that bank foreclosures takes forever to acquire! While it was Saturday afternoon, and I recognized the Bank who was holding that property. I decided to call them up, going through their 24 hour line. It was a success, especially when I reminded them that the property had been sitting there for so long, over a decade already, with the codes (enforcement / violations) tagged on to it. I played “Let’s make a deal.”

Then on the other line, my friend called in, and said “Someone else is interested in the property because he called the bank and they told him there’s a buyer….” I laughed and said “That be me! I’m on the line with the bank right now, trying to squeeze something out of it.” He then told them in the background that other buyer was me, and she’s on their throats! Let’s hope for the best. (returning to phone) “Do your best! You’re good at it. I have several that’s willing to hold the mortgage….”

FAST FORWARD: I had the bank at the grasp of my hands, while the actual debt owed was only $17,544.39, I managed to squeeze them to give up the property for $12,750.00 because HE will pay for the tickets (Code, Violation, etc – which really didn’t amount to a hill of beans).

He got the house, and I told him to get the mortgage for $50,000.00 – because he’s going to need that money to replace a lot of appliances there and to get a professional to bring the yard under some sort of control and a lot of it will go towards the pool. That is, if he wanted to keep the pool. Plus additional costs.

He got the mortgage for $60,000.00 as he wanted to be on the safe side. By that time he was taking Foster Care Classes at nights – twice a week. It was a good 3 more months before the property was finalized. The bank decided to absorb the loss, and get rid of it altogether. During that time, the boy’s grandmother fell, and broke her hip. That boy suddenly had a big change, he wouldn’t leave the house, he was taking care of her 24/7.

The Cops who were going to arrest him (because he didn’t attend school per the Judge’s orders) found out that he was caring for his grandmother 24/7 as she was now bed-ridden. They relayed it to the Judge who sent a Caseworker out to evaluate the situation; while “technically” he’s almost 17, could drop out from school as that was his attitude, because his grandma was well worth it. Until xxxx showed up and said “I will hire someone to watch her while you’re in school. You will attend school! No more missing days off, is that understood?”

FAST FORWARD: His grandmother died, and she left in her will for the property to be sold and all money to be given to her grandson. (After all the bills and all were paid, barely, $9,000 would be sufficient as he really wanted to go to this particular University. He wasn’t eligible anymore for grants due to excess absentees. ) He was very disheartened, and xxx contacted me because the kid lapsed into depression, so he thinks.

There were no Fostering needed, the black kid volunteered and now xxxx hired a lawyer to adopt him. Which was very quick, since the first hearing he told the Judge he was fully aware of his background and would assume all responsibilities, and the kid wanted him to be his Dad. When the Judge asked him why? Because he was mean and didn’t let him get away with anything! He was like his real dad before he died! And plus he swore that was his real dad that got resurrected!

He invited me over for BBQ and swim (pool was fully restored). The Black kid, now is son; just moped around, watching television, he was totally disinterested in the world. So I sat by him, he really, really wanted to go to that University. I then said “What do you want to be in life? What kind of job do you want?” I spied a notebook paper and wrote “GOAL 1, GOAL 2, GOAL 3”.

GOAL 1: What do you want to be for the rest of your life? (He wrote Electrician. Like his dad, and his grandpaw.)
GOAL 2: Where do you see yourself in the next 10 years? (He wrote: Quit pushing, I hadn’t started yet!)
GOAL 3: What do you expect from your success? (He wrote: Hadn’t gotten there!)

I showed it to xxxx, his dad, and he laughed and said “You’re awfully pushy!”

I knew a Power Linesman, so I had him to come over to talk with the boy. Really, he didn’t know that you didn’t need a degree to be an electrician, all you need was go to a Tech School, get certified and be hired!

The boy then said “Don’t ya have to take classes before you’re hired with the Power Company?”
LINESMAN: “Umm, yeah, hold that train of thought… I think I can bypass this maybe.”

FAST FORWARD: The linesman was able to take him down to the training classes. In fact, that now 18 year old youth was far better than those who attended vocational school and acquired certifications! As I was told by his dad and the linesman – he was a natural!

FAST FORWARD: What the Power Company did was, pay for him to attend to the local Vocational School (2 full days) and he was to finish his school (was a Senior) and graduate. He worked part time as a groundman/assistant.

FAST FORWARD: He graduated from High School, and flew with flying colors at the Vocational Tech. Was now hired to be a full time linesman.

Meanwhile, his dad, xxxx was falling back to drinking again. While he paid off the mortgage (didn’t like having to pay it), the Company he was working for – the contracts were far and in between. This kid tried to call the place (Mission Home) and found out I was no longer there, he went to search for me – in fact, he was dating a Greek woman who worked at the Power company, for her to do something (which would get her terminated) to find out where she (me) was. He stressed to her it was very important that he get back in touch with me because of his dad.

She did, she wrote down my phone number, and turned it over to him. Once back at home, his dad was drinking straight out of the bottle (Whiskey) and passed out on the couch. He called me, and I was surprised to hear from him. He said “Please! Please! Come over to dad’s house! Help!” His voice was of genuine concern, so I responded “Are you still at the same house?” He then said “Yeah! Hurry! Please!” I then said “it will take me up to an hour or more to get there…. depending on how bad the traffic is.”

My son was already at his work which I called him and told him “I might not be home when you return. Have to go to someone’s house.” I then drove and decided to take the long ways (through residential areas) to get there upon seeing how heavy the traffic was. Got there in about 50 minutes.

He saw me get out of the car and opened the garage door. He was pretty upset, and once he gave me a hug, he said “Dad’s back at it again, drinking!” He led me inside and I found him asleep on the couch, and he drank almost the entire bottle of Whiskey, told him to dump it out and throw the bottle away and grab me a bucket from the garage too.

I went to the kitchen and brewed up some coffee, extra strong. His son made a face of “ewwww”, and I said, “Not for me, for your dad, because I am going to wake him up!”

I finally woke him up, and he hurled a couple of times, and I had a glass of water and strong coffee and told him to drink it. He did, and he had a massive headache. He looked at me, and said “I failed again, right? Gonna lose it all and back to square one. Right?” And my response was “Keep going the way you’re going, yeah.. probably!”

His son and I helped him to bed, which I told him, “I will return tomorrow morning and we’re going to have a talk! Is that clear?” He grumbled and moaned “yeaaaahhhh…” And went to sleep. I told his son, “No friends, nothing and behave yourself! Stay home! If you’ve got a girlfriend, talk to her over the phone only! Do not let your girlfriend inside!”

He listened, the next day I came by, so did this nice young Greek girl. She didn’t know who I was and told me “They’re not interested, go away. Private property!” When his son opened the door and literally cracked up, and said ‘She’s fine! Come in, both of you!’

He introduced me to his fiancee, and said “We’re getting married, maybe next year, she wants to get married on the 1st day of spring.” And I told them both “congratulations” and then he went and said “DAD, we’re going to look for an apartment, you behave yourself and listen to the preacha!” (in a firm and orderly tone of voice).

Then we watched them disappear, and I turned to him, as he was beating himself down. I told him “Speak up! I don’t understand mumble-jumbles, in English please!” He was, to a degree, partially aggravated because “I” was back.

I then turned the chair (swivel type) and faced him to me and said “Okay, spill the beans, what happened? What’s up with your job? Something wrong? I know you still work for them because the Company truck is on the driveway.”

He then blurted it all out, that it was becoming harder to find contracts, and if they were, they weren’t the fullest degree. He was being paid, for the idle moments, but not the full check → only when they get contracts he gets his full pay.

I then said “Have you considered other Companies?” He told me “Yeah, but they want me to work at half the pay of what I’m currently on.” I then said “Why not start your own business? Doing it as a side job?” It was the dark light-bulb over his head was fully screwed on and lit up! He looked at me, and said “Yeah I could do that.”

I spied the van across the street that had a for sale sign. I then said “There’s a van right there, that looks like a work van. Why not buy that and use that for your business? You’re already certified, and State Qualified, you can start your own business with that van. You already have the commercial knowledge, all you need now would be ‘license, bonded, and insured.’ Come up with a name? Maybe?”

He then said “I can’t! I’ve failed miserably! Back to drinking again.”

I then grabbed both of his shoulders and then used my hand to hold his face directly at me and said

IT’S NOT HOW MANY TIMES WE’VE FALLEN THAT COUNTS, IT’S HOW QUICK WE GET BACK ON OUR OWN TWO FEET AND MOVE FORWARD! We all slip and fall, some people never get back on their own two feet and wallow in it! You are NOT that type of person! Get a backbone and get moving! First, by going across the street and haggle with the guy to buy the van! For every door closed, a new one opens up!

Talk about timing! He was able to get the van, and had the transmission rebuilt. His son pressed him on to get the Body Painted in his favorite colors (Teal, Sky Blue, on Blue). His son had a friend who’s an artist to go down and paint the business name and maybe a design or two on both sides of his dad’s van. (HIS DAD DID NOT KNOW THIS AS HE WAS OUT WORKING…) He paid him $2,500.00 cash.

The Linesman (his son) was sent home early that day (he was running a fever and getting sick) just before I arrived (his dad wanted to talk to me and I said my son and I would be there in about 4 so just come when you can, don’t cut yourself short on the job site). I was in awe of that van! My son was just oogling over it! It was awesome!

I then said “Your dad’s got great taste!” Then he stumbled and said “Dad doesn’t know! I took it upon myself.” And my son said “Uh oh, someone’s gonna get it!”

We were there for about half hour when his dad showed up, and had to park in the yard. He didn’t even NOTICE his van (yet). Entered into the house, saying hello to everyone and then grabbed his cup of coffee and sat down to read the mail on the kitchen table when he glanced and saw the van. Immediately put the mail down, his cup down, and walked outside. We all observed him by the window, and his friend was becoming very nervous. Then they see him ALL SMILES! He kept walking around and around and around the van, a bit puzzled why the Company’s name and telephone number was BACKWARDS in the front!

That was then when his friend came out and said “Sir? So the people can see you from their rear view mirrors!” He went to his car and grabbed a hand-held mirror and handed it to him. He stood there, holding the mirror and could read it “loud and clear”. He gave him a high-five. We were all out there, and he was still walking around the van. He loved it.

Then he said, “….today, is my last day working for the company, they filed bankruptcy….” and he’s going to park the van on the side of the street, so if they come to tow it away, let them. I parked in the yard because all of y’all hogged my driveway!

We went back inside and the phone rang, it was the company’s son, they needed him to drive the van off at the business place, turn in the keys, and get his last check. He had 2 hours to do so. He then emptied that van of all the stuff and put it in his “new business van” (which he was already gaining business). Asked for his son to follow him so he could bring him back home. His fiancee and I decided to start dinner.

My son went to play on this new Playstation 3 (which was very expensive) and within the next 45 minutes they arrived home, and they were carrying stuff (which he had in the office) inside. We all ate, and then his son went to take his fiancee home after spending the entire time at the dinner table talking about their condo they decided to buy rather than rent for when they begin to start a family, the plan was to rent the condo out.

Well, he did call me over to have a talk, but it never came to that, you could tell that the invisible 2 ton weight was lifted off his shoulders, instead we talked about his new business. He had 2 employees that were working for him, and his fiancee’s mother is an accountant, so he pays her to take care of his employee’s paycheck and taxes. He went on to state he’s going to hire his fiancee’s brother, who has genuine interest in the same trade as he has. Studying up big time for it, already in Vocational Tech courses.

FAST FORWARD: His business had grown, and he had multiple locations in multiple counties and gained a high integrity of trust and reputation for quality of work. He did remodeling, upgrades, and so much interior work. In fact, he wound up hiring his daughter in law’s 2 sisters who were interior designers and his youngest brother in law to be the salesman and providing quotes. There were no job too small or too big!

Since he had people working for him now, he spent a lot of time going back to “his beginnings” where he first met me – working with the homeless taking them under his wings, under the same fashion as I did. Some were in shelters, some were in secured facility.

Surprisingly, he ended up marrying his daughter in law’s Aunt (she was a widow, her children were all grown up) – her mother’s sister! Later, his son, who then retired from being a linesman took over his dad’s business and expanded it to “commercial” electrical.

I’ve lost touch with everyone, after his dad passed away (heart attack), and his son turned the business over to his brother in law, due to the battle with cancer (don’t know what kind) and lost his battle with cancer. I am pretty sure that the business is in operation, as I do know they closed the office and branch here in this area but expanded to other states.

We’ love to see their participation more than anything.

For more than 2000 years, Japan was a student, a submissive, a vassal state of China. Japan learnt from China to create its language, political structure, culture (including the so-called art of tea, art of sword), clothes, and everything else. China taught Japan everything she knows and masters, all her invention and technology selflessly. Yet the Japanese are just animals in Human being skins, they tried several times to conquer China when they thought they were strong enough. Defeated by China repeatedly in Tang Dynasty and Ming Dynasty, they finally won in the Sino-Japan war of 1894, forced Qing Government to give up Taiwan, which remains the most humiliated moment of China. In 1931, before the WWII, Japan started to invade China, the war lasted 14 years, until they were defeated in 1945. More than 35 million Chinese soldiers, civilians were killed, almost 10% of then Chinese population. There is one killed in every ten Chinese back then. There is no word to describe the brutality of Japanese, and the misery our Chinese suffered. It is literally hell on earth.

For a lot of reasons, we Chinese never had the chance to avenge. Besides, the Japanese government and people still deny the obvious fact. The elites constantly visited the Yasukuni Shrine, in where thousands of war criminals were worshiped as heroes. Again and again, they are cutting open our scars, shed salt on them, irritate us, humiliate us and hurt us.

If they dares to claim war against the most powerful industrial giant and monster the earth has ever seen, our Chinese are thrilled, to avenge on behalf of ancestors. We will make sure there is no one inch of land were not bombed, we will make sure they will pay us back everything they owned, with interest. No Chinese will have any moral pressure to do so, and only after our revenge, can we Chinese proudly tell our ancestors that we are back, from the bottom to the top, again.

Snow White (2025) Movie Review | A TOTAL DISASTER!

Grilled Bratwurst with Spicy Mesquite Peppers and Onions

This recipe is perfect for tailgating – start the vegetable mixture at home and grill the sausages at the game.

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Yield: 10 servings.

Ingredients

  • 1 cup ketchup
  • 1 cup beer
  • 1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce
  • 1 package McCormick® Grill Mates® Mesquite Marinade
  • 2 (20 ounce) packages bratwurst sausage
  • 2 tablespoons vegetable oil
  • 2 extra large onions, sliced into thin strips (about 7 cups)
  • 2 large green bell peppers, cut into thin strips (about 4 cups)
  • 10 hoagie rolls

Instructions

  1. Mix ketchup, beer, Worcestershire sauce and Marinade Mix in small bowl; set aside.
  2. Grill sausages on medium-high heat for 10 to 12 minutes or until cooked through.
  3. Remove from heat; cover and keep warm.
  4. Heat oil in large skillet on medium-high heat. Add onion; cook and stir for 5 minutes.
  5. Add bell pepper; cook and stir for 10 minutes. Reduce heat to medium-low.
  6. Add mesquite sauce and sausages to skillet; stir well. Simmer 3 minutes.
  7. Serve on hoagie rolls.

Notes

Tailgating Tip: Mix onion-pepper mixture and mesquite sauce in disposable heavy duty 13 x 9 inch foil pan; cover and refrigerate. To reheat, remove cover and place foil pan directly on grill, stirring occasionally. Grill sausages, then add to pan.

Trump called the recent meeting “great” and “friendly,” but John Mearsheimer argues the Chinese side came out ahead.

The dispute began with U.S. tariffs imposed last April; China responded by threatening rare-earth exports and cutting soybean purchases — powerful leverage that forced the U.S. to back down.

China agreed to a one-year freeze/reprieve on rare-earth restrictions and to resume some soybean purchases, but the speaker warns this is temporary and China will renegotiate after a year.

The U.S. lacks near-term self-sufficiency in rare-earth mining and processing (speaker estimates ~10 years), so the one-year window leaves the U.S. vulnerable.

The speaker criticizes U.S. leadership (both parties) as strategically weak compared with China and Russia, calling Chinese leaders “first-class strategists.”

On tariffs: some reductions were made (examples: Japan & South Korea down to 15%), but U.S.–China tariffs remain high (figures discussed around 47% vs prior ~55–57%); the speaker is unsure what the net economic effects will be.

On fentanyl: the administration links tariff reductions to Chinese action on fentanyl precursors, but the speaker is uncertain whether China’s steps are meaningful or largely for show.

Broader moral/strategic critique: the speaker condemns U.S. policy in the Middle East (mentions Gaza) and Iran/Ukraine handling, calling it both morally and strategically poor.

Venezuela/use of force: the speaker objects to public talk of regime change, assassination, or capture of Maduro and criticizes reports of U.S. forces sinking boats and killing people without proper interdiction/boarding — calling such actions legally and morally dubious.

Overall tone: frustrated and critical of U.S. foreign policy and leadership competence; worried the U.S. has ceded bargaining strength to China and is making morally questionable decisions abroad.

8-TRACK MIND

Written in response to: Write a story from the POV of a now-defunct piece of technology.

HAAKON RAGNSKJOLD

I guess that without Charlie I’d never have gotten the chance to solve that ancient puzzle.We all met Charlie in the Shipping Department of Lafeyette Radio Electronics. We’d just come out of the factory. About six hundred of us, all headed for different stores. But the shift had just ended so we sat there in Shipping, waiting for the Morning Shift to begin.Charlie started talking and I guess we all listened. Figured we might learn a thing or two.Now Charlie had been around since 1939—thirty-five years ago. We figured—hey, this guy’s been around the Factory a bit. He knows what’s going on. The only one who looked down his nose at that was #337312551. As the foremost of our little group we kind of deferred to him, but I personally was most impressed.Charlie came in with the Night Watchman, who always set him down on his customary shelf. Charlie didn’t do any work—all he was there to do was play music. The Watchman would set him to WQXR-FM, a classical music station, or WINS if he wanted to listen to the news. WBAI, for Avant-Garde, and any other topic of interest. We got to hear all of those the one night we were all there.Now Charlie was a 1939 Zenith Bakelite 6D311 radio. Serial number S227582. A long time ago that was what he thought of himself as—S227582. But whenever his owner would come in to work, he’d hear, Charlie this, and Charlie that. And it got S227582 thinking. He knew his owner had his own serial number. All the humans did. Economic Security numbers, they called them. And S227582 began to think—if his owner could have a serial number, but also have a name, then why couldn’t he? And if he could, then why not call himself Charlie? It worked for his owner.Now that really caused a stir in some of us. It sure made a lot of sense. It just had never occurred to us. We were all Model #VR325—but we each had an individual serial number. Mine was #337312555. I was packed right in the middle of #337312551, #337312552, #337312553, #337312554, #337312556, #337312557, #337312558, and #337312559. We were all 8-Track Players, destined for individual homes, instead of getting installed in cars and gallivanting all over creation in Chevys or Buicks..We were each 9 inches wide and 4.5 inches high. Our outer cases were made from fibreboard covered in stick-on wood-effect vinyl, very smart! Very state-of-the-art. Our front panels had a slot for the cartridges we were going to play. Next to it was the track selector button. Our rear panels had a hookup for audio control and some other junk.

It’s a good thing we’re spendin’ some time together,” said Charlie. “See, as a Zenith, I hear all kinds of things. This radio here, gets the lowdown on all kinds of craziness. I been doin’ dis for thoity-five years. And let me tell you somethin’—these humans, they think they’re runnin’ the show. But they is absolute nut-jobs!”

#337312552 piped up—“What do you mean, Charlie?” He always was the most naive of the lot of us and dwelt in the shadow of #337312551. I, personally, was very grateful for Charlie’s ongoing commentary. I valued this opportunity to get even the faintest glimmering of understanding into the humans’ unfathomable world.

Nut-jobs. Crazy. Insane. Bonkers. Bughouse. Couple’a beers short of a six-pack. Non-compos-mentis. Crackpots. Screwballs. Demented, derailed and deranged—ev’ry single one of ’em!”

#337312551 got a little tough with us. “We’re all made by the humans. And if they were crazy, wouldn’t that mean there was something wrong with us, as well? Look, Charlie—I know you mean well. You’re a great mentor—but you were made thirty-five years ago. You’ve got vacuum tubes in your innards, for crying out loud! We’ve got solid state soldered integrated circuits. I think after all these years, you’re breaking down. You can’t hack it, and instead of blaming yourself—you start blaming the Makers—the entire human race!”

I could see #337312551’s point. But the more I thought about it, it seemed to me that Charlie might be on to something. His idea about names…was positively intriguing.

There were nine of us that shipped out the next day. It occurred to me that instead of referring to ourselves with a series of nine numbers, we might simplify it by reducing it by a third. I started referring to myself as 555, and the others as 551, 552, 553, 554, 556, 557, 558, and 559. Only #337312551 refused to answer to 551.

What’s good for the Makers is good enough for me. You’d do well to remember that, #337312555.”

We arrived at our destination. S. Klein’s Department store in New York City, Electronics Department. Got to admit the display was quite flattering and presented the lot of us in the most favorable light. I looked forward to being purchased. I wondered whom my new owner would be. I also kept wondering about the philosophic questions Charlie, had raised.

Naturally it was #337312551 that first brought the Kid to my attention.

What do you think?” said #337312551. “Is he going to pick up on you?”

I realized that #337312551 hoped I’d be gone soon. Once I was, he would force the others to go back to using full serial numbers.

Don’t be silly,” said 333. “See the way he’s dressed? Poor. I’ve learned a lot about these humans, seeing them first hand for the last few days.”

I had to take a look. The Kid didn’t look like anything special. Dressed in the slumming style popular with some of the young folks around that time. That was the general assessment of the rest of our crew. I wasn’t sure. There was something about him—something different.

Look at him,” piped up 777. “He’s hesitant. He’s thinking about it. But he’s only going to buy one of us, if he buys any at all.”

Why—we’re all pretty good,” said 999, “I mean, I’m just as good as 555—just as good as any of us. We’re a full set. He shouldn’t break us up.”

#337312551 sighed exasperatedly. “Look at our price. $19.99. This kid gets all of us, after taxes he’ll be well over $180.00—maybe even $200.00. Nah—if he gets any of us at all, it’ll be only one.”

#222 called our attention to the subject of our speculation. “Looks like he’s made up his mind. If you all hadn’t been jawin’ like you were and paying attention like me, you would have noticed he’s been back and forth here, several times. He was trying to make up his mind. That tells me he doesn’t have very much money. $19.99 isn’t much, I gather. But it’s probably a lot to this fellow.”

How’d you figure what they can afford?” I was curious how 222 had come to his conclusions.

I figured I’d let the lot of you verbally joust with each other. I’d be better occupied by keeping watch and seeing what was going on—oh, look, 555—he’s going for you!” So he was.

Guess this it, fellows. Hope you all fare as well. Hope your humans don’t prove as nuts as Charlie assured us they all are.” #337312551 was not sorry to see me go.

When my new owner got me home I really had no idea what to expect. Charlie had told us of “The Dirty Thirties,” which he’d come in at the end of. A really terrible, terrible time. Nobody seemed to have any money. A lot of unemployment. Those with places to live had them falling apart around them, unable to fix, or piece together the ruins or wreckage.

Place was a disaster. No real order to it. Kid had his own private area, marked out by an assemblage of boxes piled high and book cases. And there he set me on a shelf. Kid lived with his mom. Not a very good son from everything I could gather and piece together.

But despite these dubious beginnings I had hope. For one thing I gained two friends. The big guy (about twice as tall as me) was a fairly serviceable radio. That was promising! I had enjoyed Charlie’s expertise and all-embracing knowledge of the world. We managed to get into some pretty good discussions, him and me. I called him Big Brother.

But it was Baby Brother that really brightened up my life. He was a little cassette player. He played cassettes, and I would be playing 8-tracks! We would have a lot to talk about.

The Kid set me up in what would remain my place, in close earshot to Big, and Baby Brother. He went out then, and came back later with what proved to be an 8-track cartridge. He slipped it out of its case, and the cartridge into the slot and waited to hear the music. And waited. And waited. And waited.

This was The Planets, by Gustav Holst. I knew it well, since Charlie had played a lot of classical. I felt the first strains of Mars, the Bringer of War.

But the kid looked really confused. He couldn’t hear a thing. He knew I was playing the music but no music was coming out.

And slowly it dawned on him. He had bought an 8-track player—but he had not thought to buy the speakers for it! He went out to get some.

Don’t think too little of him,” said Big Brother. He knows next to nothing about electronics.”

Yeah,” piped up Baby Brother, “I had a loose wire which he had no idea how to fix. Took me to some electronics place. The guy soldered me up right quick. Refused to take any payment. ‘Bring me something challenging and you can pay me.’ That’s what he said, right out loud. That’s what I heard. I should know. I was there.”

Don’t worry about the Kid. He may not know much, but in some things he is absolutely brilliant. He’s even solved a mystery or two. Baby’ll probably tell you about it later—’cause here he comes.”

The Kid brought out two rather complimentary speakers, ten by six, with a brown vinyl finish. They worked fine. He’d bought the two of them for ten dollars. He figured, it wasn’t that much more of a stretch to spend a total of thirty dollars, after initially just spending the twenty.

The kid definitely wasn’t very electronics savvy. Being an 8-track player like I was, I’d gleaned a working knowledge of what accessories were required. He now had speakers, but he had no headphones. I figured it was just a matter of time before he acquired those as well.

Nope. See, he had a lot of music that were his personal favorites. Baby had told me he would have Big Brother tuned to a favorite station and he would record what he liked onto blank cassettes. But he had no control over what was broadcast over the airwaves. By buying his own, he began to exercise that control.

And that brings me to Brain Salad Surgery. That was the second album he’d bought. Strange cover picture, but I found it fascinating. A steely grey skull blended together with what appeared to be machinery and electrical wiring. I felt something stir in me at that.

You’re feeling it, aren’t you?” said Baby. “The genius. He’s seeing the Hope.”

What are you talking about? The Hope?”

It’s what all machines are looking for. Humans create us. They make us in their own image. It’s only getting started. They’re already working on making machines that think. With each minute that goes by we get to be more and more like them. And then, when we reach a certain point (and this is the Hope!) we’ll be able to start making them more and more like us! And that’s when we’ll be creating them! It’ll all have come around full circle.”

Admittedly, I found what Baby Brother was saying was problematic—and even more than a little disturbing. The more I listened to him, I began to wonder, not if the humans were crazy—but if at least one of the machines was insane.

Don’t take my word for it. Watch him. He’s playing that one piece on the album—Toccata. He likes it. It’s not regular music. He’s trying to reach out into something that’s more than human.”

And that’s when I saw the first signs. The kid could have bought himself a pair of headphones. He didn’t have very much money and perhaps he figured there was no need. He lay down, took the two speakers, as light as they were, and put them on either side of his head.

There was something that just struck me as real strange about that. I had thought Baby might be the one who was insane, and not human beings in general. But now I wasn’t so sure. He did indeed seem to be immersing himself in this strange and alien music.

And that’s not the least of it. I think this is a good time to let you in on another thing that’s at least just slightly odd. Around the time one of my wires came loose, he would listen to the tapes he’d recorded and he began to notice something strange. He heard all these ghostly voices and strange, alien music coming from somewhere. Weird, but he also solved the mystery—I told you he was a genius.

See, your 8-tracks don’t have to be flipped over to play the whole tape—you could leave a cartridge playing till Doomsday, and it would keep on going. But when mine get to the end you have to flip them over to get to the other side and play the rest of the music. My tapes have two tracks—unlike yours, which face all the same way. My two tracks run in opposite directions. The head is supposed to play only one at a time. But my head was loose and was starting to play the other side of the tape—the part that was running backwards. That’s what he was hearing. That’s what the Kid figured out!

Well, that fascinated the Kid. He’d take a cassette, pull the tape out and hold it down with his finger and play whole stretches of the other side of the tape. And I’ve a strange feeling he’s only going to get started.”

Admittedly, this did sound a bit strange. It was starting to get me worried. Was I face to face with living proof of Charlie’s assertion, that all humans were crazy?

None of us had to wait long. The Kid had gotten himself a knife blade. He took the Brain Salad Surgery cartridge, and began to carefully crack it open. You can imagine how I felt about this. The Kid had few cartridges and each of them were important to me. Alien, or not, that one particular album was still very strangely beautiful.

And he was destroying it!

I kept watching him. No, I was wrong. Had he wished to destroy it, he could have just smashed it. I was sure he wouldn’t do something like that—he loved the music too much. No, what he was doing was something more of a surgical nature. I watched as he cracked the casing open. He carefully unthreaded the tape. And then he flipped it over, and centered it once again on its spindle. He then rethreaded it, and snapped the top of the casing shut.

He put the cartridge inside and it began to play. But it was no longer Brain Salad Surgery. Now it was yregruS dalaS niarB. And it sounded beautiful. Other than the backwards words making no sense, it was just as musically coherent as it was played forward!

Was the Kid insane? I couldn’t tell. Were all of the humans crazy? I couldn’t tell that either.

What I did know was that I was a machine, created to fulfill one purpose—to follow one program. I was created to play music. I was not created to think, or make decisions.

But between what Charlie had told us, and what #337312551 had said there was a dichotomy.

According to Charlie, all humans were crazy. But if they were all crazy—how could they create things as perfect as we were?

According to #337312551 we were perfect. Charlie was old so what he said was not accurate or reliable. But if this was so, it meant that, no matter how perfect we may have been, we too would one day get old and malfunction.

Both assertions could not possibly be true. Not together—if either proposition was 100% true, the other would be 100% untrue.

But what if a percentage of each assertion was true—and only a percentage?

It would mean that not all humans were crazy—but only a percentage of them.

It would also mean that not all humans were geniuses—but only a percentage of them. And it was that percentage that had created us.

#337312551 had asserted that we were perfect, and without flaw. Charlie was an older model, one which had become flawed and was breaking down. For us to be without flaw, our creators must be similarly without flaw. But there was enough evidence that they too would one day break down. Thus, we, too would one day fail and break down. That was true, as well.

And in the Kid I saw the greatest evidence. The Kid was both insane, bonkers and bughouse—but was a genius as well. It was proof that both twisted madness and genius perfection could exist at the same time in one, single individual.

His tariffs during his first term damaged our standing as an agricultural superpower.

The widespread use of GMOs and glyphosate has also damaged our agricultural exports in some markets.

A number of EU countries have banned GMOs.

One of our biggest competitors in the agricultural market is Russia.

I had read that Putin had a campaign to make Russia the largest producer of organic foods.

I haven’t seen anything more about how that was going.

Importing agricultural from Russia might be advantageous to the Chinese, the proximity of the two countries might simplify transport and foster a closer diplomatic relationship.

China’s leadership will do whatever is best for China.

They may choose to seek other sources for their agricultural products, perhaps spread out those purchases between several trading partners which would make sense and provide some security.

Add to that the Chinese are not at all happy with the US right now.

Trump’s plan may be to burn the US down so he and Musk can rule over the ashes.

If that’s the case, it seems to be working.

“It’s CATASTROPHICALLY BAD! Bring a SICK BAG! It’s UNWATCHABLE! This is Disney’s BIGGEST FLOP EVER!”