Being inside of China, the primary foods available are, well, Chinese (Duh!). But my daughter (being part American, and part Chinese DNA) inherited my stomach. And Lordy (!) she loves breads, pizza, hotdogs, pastas, chips, Doritos, and all those tasty American foods that make you fat. Ugh!
My wife has tried, and tried to get her to love seafood; snails, oysters, clams, fish, jellyfish, sea urchins, and so forth. But, yeah she’s just not with the program. Well, not yet anyways. She will be, though (I believe!).
Well, we found a work-around, sure you can get pizza here (we have Pizza Hut, some Italian chains, Domino’s pizza, and Poppa Johns), and we can order off the internet such expensive items, such as hot dogs, cheese, relish, yellow mustard, etc. But we just need something that she can eat quickly that satisfies her yearning for Western food (specifically, American)…
… so we discovered “toasted bread”.
Yeah. I know, you all are probably laughing. But nah. It’s a serious business. Here in China, loaves of white bread are everywhere, and they are cheap too. A small loaves (say 8 slices) is around 6 to 9 yuan. This is around $1 USD. And we just toast it in our toaster, and she eats it plain.
No butter, no cheese, no peanut butter.
She loves the simplicity of hot warm flavor and the inherent sweetness of the bread. And guys, that’s our (for now) work around for a kid with an American stomach while living inside of China.
And now you know.
Today…
Deep Purrpaw – Paws in the water | Live at Rock & Roar Festival 2026
This is friggin’ amazing!
As a cashier, what is the pettiest thing you’ve seen a cheap customer do?
This is a different take. I was the petty (and probably seemed cheap) person but I was also the cashier.
when I was younger, I was a cashier at Home Depot. One day I had a customer come up with something small and cheap. Think like the small pieces of piping for plumbing or something. I don’t remember exactly what the price came out to like $5.05 (I don’t remember the dollar amount but I remember the change because that’s the point of this story. Normally I was a pretty lenient person. I know most people don’t carry change and can be understanding about that as long as they make an effort of at least looking like they’re gonna try to give the small amount of change. But on this day this guy walks up and, after ringing him up, gives me the dollar amount but no change. Just stands there staring with this angry look on their face that slowly gets angrier the longer we’re staring at each other as I wait for him to try to find the change. Finally I speak, assuming he didn’t realize he owed change, and tell him he still owes me a nickel.
He immediately raises his voice berating me and telling me how ridiculous I’m being trying to force him to find a nickel and that I should just let it go. Again normally I would have, but I have a vendetta against entitled people.
I’m not gonna allow a customer to come up and assume they don’t have to pay the full price for something because they think the change isn’t important.
So I tell them I need that nickel because if my drawer is short at the end of the shift, I would get in trouble. By now theirs is like 4 people standing behind this dude who is getting louder and angrier yelling at this tiny teenage girl just doing her job.
Finally a customer behind him pulls out a quarter and hands it to him while telling him he should have at least put in the effort to try to pay the full amount.
the guy then left and all the customers behind him apologized to me for having to deal with him and all agreed (as well as my coworkers) that the guy shouldn’t have just assumed that he was entitled to not have to pay the change.
and before people start making comments, I know I could have just let it go and moved on but as bob says constantly on bob’s burgers “it’s the principle of the thing.” If he had been polite to me and put in the effort to at least pretend to check his pockets, I would have let it slide.
But he came up to me, handing me the wrong amount of money, and expected me to fix it while he looked at me with the most condescending smirk ever and I’ve never been one to allow someone to disrespect me nor do I allow (if I can help it) anyone to assume they are more entitled than others.
The Husband finds out…
Mahsi (Middle Eastern Stuffed Peppers)
Yield: 4 to 6 servings
Ingredients
- 4 to 6 bell peppers, topped and cored
- 1/2 pound ground beef and pork
- 1 onion, chopped
- Dash of garlic powder
- 1/2 cup minced parsley
- 1 1/2 cups cooked rice
- 3 tablespoons margarine
- 1 teaspoon salt
- Dash of pepper
- 2 cups tomato sauce
- Dill to taste
Instructions
- Brown meat with onion and garlic powder in skillet.
- Add remaining ingredients, mixing well.
- Fill peppers with mixture until fully stuffed.
- Place in baking dish; add water to 1/4 inch depth.
- Bake at 325 degrees F for 1 1/2 hours.
How easy is it for truck drivers to fake their logs and get away with driving longer than they’re supposed to?
In Europe,in Western Germany starting in 1953, until a few years ago, we used mechanical “Tachographs”, which recorded driving times and speeds on a paper disk, valid for 24 hours.
Both pictures from Von Patrick Seidler (Paettchen) – Eigenes Werk, CC BY-SA 3.0, File:Wiki Tachoscheibe.jpg – Wikimedia Commons
Up to 1979 we also had a paper logbook for each driver. It was called the “lie book”.
Picture from Von Bundesministerium für Verkehr / Hersteller- “Prelle Druck” in Osnabrück – Eigenes Werk, Gemeinfrei, File:Eintrag im Persönlichen Kontrollheft (gültig bis 1979).jpg – Wikimedia Commons
Since 2006 newly registered trucks and busses in the EU need to have a digital tachograph installed. Each driver has a card, the size of a credit card, with a chip, which he inserts into a slot on the apparatus. Unlike with the mechanical tachographs, where e.g. the stylus could be blocked with a rubber band or a paper clip, the digital tachographs are much more difficult to manipulate.
Picture from Von Foto: Benutzer:Elkawe, nachträgliche Bildunterschriften von Benutzer:Paettchen – eigene Aufnahme, CC BY-SA 3.0, Datei:Black-Box1.JPG – Wikipedia
The Hidden Food Collapse in America (And Why No One Is Stockpiling)
Does the Chinese Communist Party have the legitimacy to rule mainland China permanently?
No
The CPC doesn’t even aim to
The GREAT REJUVENATION of the Chinese People and Civilization is also associated with the DISAPPEARANCE OF THE CPC
Today China is divided into STATE & PEOPLE – 2 classes
Mao and Deng both believed that the STATE (PARTY) was necessary to Hold the people together until the great rejuvenation
Until People in China were evolved enough to forget all differences and be completely equal
The HIGHEST FORM OF SOCIAL EVOLUTION
When that day comes THE CPC will also merge into the People and CHINA WILL HAVE ONLY ONE CLASS
My grand daughter is taught this in her Moral Science class
The CPC is seen not as a ruler but as a Protector of the Chinese people, to preserve Chinese culture and civilization from being destroyed by the Westerners and take them to a position from which they are completely invincible and the people are completely seen as ONE PEOPLE ONE SOCIETY ONE CLASS
Mao gave this a 100 yr timeline
So around 2049/2050
What I believe
I believe TRUE DEMOCRACY may be reached in China by 2049/50
Single focus
Have you ever played against a pro athlete in any sport and noticed something surprising about their performance or technique?
I worked in the real estate industry in the UK from the late 80s.
At the time the sport of Rugby Union was not fully professional and a lot of international players worked for real estate agency companies.
At the end of the rugby season every year there was an annual seven-a-side tournament known as the ‘Estate Agents Sevens’. It was highly prestigious in the industry and companies would make sure that the top rugby players who worked for th turned out in the tournament. It is now known as the ‘Surveyors Sevens’ and is still of a high standard, but no quite the same as it was back then.
The small firm that I worked for managed to qualify for the tournament (despite the fact that we didn’t have any international players, or any top club players for that matter). As a result I once had the dubious privilege of taking the field against team that included three internationals – Gavin Hastings (Scotland Captain), Andrew Harriman (who captained the England 7s team when they won the world cup in 1993) and Jim Staples (who played full-back for Ireland). Needless to say we got beaten very badly.
I don’t remember much about how Jim played, but I do recall the very contrasting styles of Gavin and Andrew.
Gavin Hastings would tease you. If he broke the tackle and got a clear run to score he would make you chase him all the way to the line. If you slowed down so would he. If you speeded up so did he. He always stayed just out of reach, knowing that he had the ability to escape if necessary.
Andrew Harriman was incredibly fast over a short distance. He could somehow accelerate so fast that in what seemed like just five or six strides he could open up a gap of 5 or 6 yards. After which he would just trot to the try line to score. Andrew never even gave you the chance to think that you might catch him up.
A game of Rugby Sevens only lasts 14 minutes, but that was one of the toughest experiences of my life. After the game my lungs were bursting and I just lay on the ground for about 20 minutes before I could even get up again.
EDIT
Given some of the comments I thought it might be useful to put the skill level between me and these three internationals into context. I was a decent club player at local level. In English rugby terms the highest level I ever played at was level 8 (I also refereed at up to level 7).
The “What If” Lives of Jeanie the Dreamer
Written in response to: “Set your story at a funeral for someone who might not have died.“
🏆 Contest #295 Winner!
Avery Sparks
This story contains themes or mentions of physical violence, gore, or abuse.
Cautiously, she stepped closer to the mirror. She thought about her plans for the afternoon, which began with fulfilling yet another Eiffel Tower order from Etsy.
She held her breath, and jumped, cat-like, through the mirror’s frame.
On the other side, she landed behind a large hebe bush, looking out onto an emerald expanse. A large lawn stretched out on one side of her, and on the other a house made largely of glass, framed by cirrus clouds and a cerulean sky. It was one of those houses Jeanie had only ever seen on TV, on the kind of show where the families building it can, at the last minute, locate an extra hundred grand to cover all those unforeseen costs.
On the other side of the bush, Jeanie could see someone in the driveway, standing behind the open car boot, apparently filming themselves.
Jeanie’s height, Jeanie’s build.
Hair the colour of embers.
‘Okay, everyone.’ Other Jeanie was holding up her phone, addressing her followers. It’s Saturday Tackquisition, so let’s see what the flea markets of Kent had in store today. I got so many things you all told me not to…
Jeanie cringed: it was just like when you hear your own voice on tape. Except it wasn’t on tape, it was real life. In this universe, the one beyond the mirror, this was her real life.
She felt a kind of ecstatic panic begin to rise in her, but bit her lip. This was not a moment to let herself be overwhelmed. She’d always been in her head, spending time in other, imaginary places – what ifs, thought experiments, speculative fictions. In equal measure entertained, scared, protected and encouraged by these other worlds. But here she was. Actually in one. There were so many questions she needed to ask herself.
‘Hey!’ she yelled, at the top of her voice, breaking the cover of the bush and running towards Rich-Jeanie. RJ.
No response.
‘HEY!’ she shouted. ‘JEANIE!’
No response.
RJ resumed the filming without seeming to notice Jeanie at all. She banged on the car – RJ continued, unperturbed. She tried to make a little scratch: maybe she could write something? But her key made no mark.
‘Shit,’ said Jeanie, as her plans to ask Other Her for the secret to her success went up in smoke.
As RJ continued filming her Tackquisition, Jeanie took curious steps towards the house. It was summer, and the back door was open. She slipped inside.
It was everything she’d ever wished for: a hot tub under the trees, her own studio, filled with the latest Modex equipment, changeable wall displays which you could programme to every mood, secret passageways, and an entire attic, windows looking out into an expanse of sky, filled from corner to corner with a model town populated with places whose spaces filled her head and her heart.
She picked up an exquisite rendering of the Hackney Empire theatre, which fit in her palm, and whose inside was as perfect as its outside. This is the best thing I’ve ever made, she thought. In her world, it was under its gilded gold florals and sweeping balcony that El had first told Jeanie she ‘bloody loved’ her.
El.
When she entered this world, she’d only thought of the way forward. Not back. Maybe, like Alice, she’d wake from a dream, but this world felt as real as reality gets. She had to find the way back.
Her steps became increasingly urgent as she ran to the back door, bursting through, her eyes racing across the garden, breath quickening. Nothing. There was nothing there. She was stuck.
She began to pace, hyperventilate – and then – a distortion – almost imperceptible, but there.
She ran, jumped into the haze, and after she’d crossed back into her bedroom, looked behind her. The mirror’s surface glared, reflecting the unchanged bedroom sharply and clearly.
She checked her phone. Half an hour. Exactly the same amount of time had passed in that world as this.
El opened the bedroom door, eyebrow raised.
‘I heard a noise – love, I’ve been looking for you. Where’d you go?’
‘I went -’
She paused. A split second decision.. ‘I went for a walk.’
She’d tell her the truth when she figured out how.
***
The mirror didn’t just lead to that one world, or that one Jeanie. Day after day after day of experimentation taught her that all it took was a thought, a moment of wanting, to unscroll an entire universe. She’d think of a place, a time, a life she’d never lived but might have, and it would be there, waiting for her. She learned to craft her thoughts, to manifest them with colour and texture, and the mirror, it seemed, was always watching.
She went, again and again, to Jeanies who did things she’d always dreamed of. One owned a bar in Vietnam, an unforgettable and nocturnal woman, handing bright and burning glasses to people having the times of their lives. One was a competitive cyclist who trained in the Alps, her legs a blur of muscle – unbeaten, unbroken. One was a war correspondent, tirelessly pulling stories from torn down cities, amplifying the voices of those in the rubble. One was an upstart of the Berlin arts scene, a riot of paint and new ideas. Jeanie wove through urban landscapes and gloried in great expanses of nature.
Time, in these worlds, stayed its course. There were no past or future lives, and minutes moved at the same pace. So she bought an analogue watch – a tag to encircle her and remind her when she had to go. Hurry up please, it’s time.
“Just half an hour in the mirror” became “just until the end of this conversation”, became “just until lunchtime”, became, “just when El will notice”. She started to miss orders. When El asked her how her day had been, her mind was full but her mouth was empty. Their conversations went from intricacies and intimacies, to broad-brush banalities. ‘Same old, same old,’ she’d say.
What with El on site, and her freelance, the secret was easy to keep. The more worlds she saw, the more she felt them crowding, widening the space between her and El, making the telling of it – if she ever could – feel further and further out of reach.
***
She’d been slipping between worlds for two years when one evening, laying in bed, she traced the outline of the roots tattooed on El’s forearms with her fingertip. In their eight years together, the lines had blurred. ‘You ever think about getting these redone?’ she asked, idly.
El turned her over, and in that way only she could, anchored Jeanie’s gaze to her own.
‘I know something’s going on, you know.’
Jeanie’s stomach jolted: a missed calculation. She’d never been caught. She thought she’d kept it all contained.
‘You’ve had less and less materials coming into the house. Sana said she never sees you down the workshop. What aren’t you telling me?’
Jeanie suddenly felt the loss of those early moments; the truths she’d never let become words; the confessions which would have kept her from this moment – when she knew she was going to lie.
‘I’m just tired of it,’ she said, not meeting El’s eyes. ‘I’m sorry. I should have talked to you about it. I want to do what speaks to me, as an artist.’
It wasn’t that El wouldn’t believe her – it was something quieter, more certain. El would’ve told her to stop. And she couldn’t stop.
El pulled her close. ‘Do whatever you need to, love. I’ve got us.’
***
The first time she went overnight, she told El she was going to Manchester for a conference.
She was starting to have favourite Jeanies to follow – lives that she’d tune in to with more investment than her own. War Correspondent-Jeanie, CJ, was one of the best.
CJ had hard eyes, the lines at their corners like history’s own annotations, deepening with every atrocity she refused to shy away from. She was at the top of her game. Jeanie watched her deliver to camera as fire cracked the sky behind her. She watched her pull truths from people, on-air, off-air, tactfully uncovering misinformation. She saw her fuse technical knowledge with deep empathy, in three words.
CJ had been nominated for a Peabody award. The night Jeanie was in “Manchester”, she stood before the stage, eyes gleaming, watching CJ’s acceptance speech for her groundbreaking reporting from her world’s Iranian Civil War.
Maybe she could stay for a bit longer – just stand a while in the warm words of others. To hear with her own ears the appreciation of a lifetime’s work.
***
2am, looking into the mirror – already blurry. Once, 2am had been her favourite time, the stillness a promise of tomorrow.
A week had passed. El had reported her missing to the police, of course. She had to be interviewed, and hadn’t bothered to rehearse a lie. She said “no comment”, like all the guilty people on true crime shows.
Her inbox was a mob of angry voices shouting about unfulfilled orders and unmet deadlines.
She felt the next day creeping. A vacuum. She didn’t even know what was on the other side this time, but she inhaled deeply, and stepped back in.
***
After the Peabody, CJ had travelled to Gabon, breaking through borders of silence to report on a conflict not troubling any algorithms.
Jeanie was watching her interview a group of refugees when the air began to crackle. A militia man on a motorbike – there and gone before anyone could think of diving for cover. The bullets scattered into press and refugees alike.
Jeanie gasped, hands to her stomach. She looked down, feeling hollow. Sometimes, she knew, people didn’t feel it when they were seriously hurt. She moved her neck, limbs, she bent her body in a twisted test – am I dead? It didn’t seem so.
Most were fleeing; survivors and wounded swarmed, helpless, directionless. Jeanie’s shouts couldn’t be heard, screaming for people to move out the way – she had to see – there on the floor –
CJ had a helmet, a bullet-proof vest – but her neck. There was a bullet in her neck. Blood haloed around her.
Jeanie saw the life leave her own eyes. She watched her jaw go slack. In the chaos, she might have been the only person who saw it.
Something pulled at her, a deep wrongness which almost bodily dragged her back to the mirror’s haze. This couldn’t be. She couldn’t be here, dead and alive.
She was dragged back – arms reaching out, desperate to hold the woman on the floor that she had watched for so many hours. That she loved like herself, but more than herself. She screamed as the mirror’s haze swallowed her.
Hurled out, she landed in her bedroom. She desperately manifested CJ in her thoughts, but the mirror remained defiantly sharp.
She stared at her hands. Small, unharmed, unscarred hands, the hands that never risked anything, and made only small things.
***
Jeanie, of course, couldn’t explain her grief to El, or why she refused to get help.
‘If you don’t tell me what’s going on, there’s no chance for us,’ El had said. ‘This has been going on for so long. I can’t work it out, Jeanie.’
Jeanie looked at the floor.
When El kicked her out, it wasn’t the thought of losing her that sent Jeanie spiralling – it was the thought of life without the mirror. She’d been so focused on the next world that she hadn’t considered the possibility of being cut off from it.
Could she take it with her? The question came, then she laughed it away. It was a full-length mirror, after all.
She’d have to find a better life.
As an outsider, always.
And so, with nothing more than a half-formed thought in her head, Jeanie stepped into the mirror without a plan for ever coming back.
***
She’d taken herself to the attic of miniatures at Rich-Jeanie’s glass mansion and let herself sink into the comfort of it. Jeanie, avoiding both RJ and her El, spent time in the tiny world under a big sky. The Rio Cinema, the Curve Garden, Better Health Bakery. Miniature, intricate, perfect. She hadn’t set foot in any of them in years.
It took months before she even set foot outside their attic. She followed the sounds of life heard from the kitchen. Anniversary day – theirs, not hers. RJ was making dim sum with flavour combinations she knew to be El’s favourites, clearly planned to elicit a ‘cor blimey’. She watched herself sit, thinking up funny names for the dishes, listing out all the words – a groan for Steak a Bao, a satisfied smile for Shrimply the Best Siu Mai.
I can do that, she thought. I can be that person too.
***
Jeanie had left the kitchen light on, hoping El would see her when she came back.
El emerged from the evening light. Behind the glass door, she stopped. She stood there, looking at Jeanie as if trying to see if she recognised any part of the woman sitting in her kitchen. Her expression – it wouldn’t settle, and Jeanie couldn’t place it. El didn’t move.
Jeanie rose deliberately, opened the door, and there they were, facing each other in their very small kitchen, in their very small house, in their world.
She barely let Jeanie say ‘hello’, before –
‘I’ve just done your fucking eulogy.’
Time stopped; their eyes met. And in that shared moment, when Jeanie’s snowflake-blue and El’s forest-hazel eyes saw each other, and only each other, they laughed.
Jeanie’s throat burned, the words scraping their way out. ‘I hope it was good.’
‘I called you a twat.’
‘Sounds about fair.’
‘And you don’t even have the good grace to be dead.’
El’s smile was worn, but genuine.
‘But I have been, El,’ she said. ‘I really have.’
And that was when Jeanie broke. She shattered, like the mirror, which upstairs, lay in fragments on the bedroom carpet. She wept. El pulled her in, wrapping her arms around Jeanie: the only Jeanie she knew.
Are mass shootings mental health issues, or is it too easy to obtain a gun?
Go and watch the movie The Highwaymen. The main character walks into a gun shop and walks out with a trunk full of guns, including a bunch of “machine guns”, in just a few minutes. And he wasn’t able to do that because he had a badge, that was the norm.
You used to find guns everywhere. Your local hardware store. Grocery stores. Kmart. Sears. Walmart.
You could open up a catalog, make a call, and a gun would be delivered right to your door.
This included surplus military equipment: belt-fed machine guns, anti-tank rifles. Delivered to your door. With nothing more than payment on delivery.
I remember seeing M1 Garands at flea markets, for a few hundred dollars. Or crates of Mosin Nagants for $60 each, two for $95, at any gun show.
During deer season, there would be trucks parked in school parking lots with a rack of rifles or shotguns across the back window. In rural areas, a rifle rack in a truck was such a common sight as to not even be noticed, much less remarked upon.
Schools had marksmanship teams, ranges in the basement, and classes on gun safety taught in grade school. JROTC would keep rifles on school property.
But you’re asking if it’s “too easy” now? 🙄
ETA: some sad, little “man” named Jeff wanted me to know that movies are fiction. No? Really? You don’t say? 🙄
And yet, anyone who isn’t an anti-gunner with an agenda, knows damn well that things like this most certainly did happen. But good on you Jeff, for pretending you have an opinion that means 💩.
Sir Whiskerton and the Great Farmyard Escape: A Tale of Greener Grass, Goatish Guile, and a Grand-Guignol
Ah, dear reader, prepare yourself for a tale of youthful rebellion, misguided greenery, and one particularly dapper cat who proves that the greatest adventures often lead you right back home. Today’s story is one of daring escapes, theatrical rescues, and the timeless lesson that curiosity didn’t just threaten the cat—it occasionally endangered the entire kid goat population. So, grab your sense of adventure and a pair of binoculars (for surveillance), as we dive into Sir Whiskerton and the Great Farmyard Escape.
The Lure of the Lawn
It all began with Barnaby, a young kid goat with more curiosity than a squirrel in a bag of acorns and a head full of romantic notions. He spent his days staring through the split-rail fence at the neighboring farm of Bigcat, the oversized Maine Coon.
“Just look at it!” Barnaby bleated to his friends: Pip, a fluffy chick with a thirst for drama, and Hoppity, a young rabbit whose ears were too big for his own good. “The grass is so much… greener over there! It’s practically glowing! And I heard there’s a waterfall of cream and a mountain of oats that never ends!”
“Never ends!” chirped Pip, puffing out her tiny chest. “It sounds like the setting for a grand epic!”
“My ears are tingling with excitement,” Hoppity whispered, his nose twitching so fast it was a blur.
Their plan was simple, born of youthful naivety and a complete lack of adult supervision. They would wait for the farmer’s afternoon nap, squeeze through the loose board near the compost heap (the one Sir Whiskerton used for diplomatic missions), and embark on their grand adventure.
The Disappearance
Sir Whiskerton was in the middle of a very important philosophical debate with Bessie the Tie-Dye Cow about whether a sunbeam was a place or a state of mind, when Doris the Hen came squawking into the barnyard.
“They’re gone! Vanished! Kidnapped by pixies or swallowed by a sinkhole!” Doris flapped her wings, sending feathers flying. “Barnaby, Pip, and Hoppity are nowhere to be found!”
A quick investigation by Rufus the Dog (whose nose was second only to his loyalty) led them straight to the loose board. Sir Whiskerton peered through the gap, his monocle glinting ominously as he observed the tiny hoof-, claw-, and paw-prints leading directly toward Bigcat’s domain.
“Oh, cluck,” Doris whispered, her dramatics suddenly replaced by genuine fear. “Bigcat’s farm. They’ll be assimilated! Or worse, forced to listen to his long-winded monologues about his extra toes!”
“This is a delicate situation,” Sir Whiskerton mused, flicking his tail. “If we charge over there with a rescue party, we’ll start a turf war and terrify the youngsters. But if we do nothing, they’ll discover that Bigcat’s ‘waterfall of cream’ is most likely a leaky pipe, and his ‘mountain of oats’ is a poorly secured feed bag.”
“Pipe!” echoed Ditto, who had appeared, as if by magic, wearing a tiny explorer’s pith helmet.
The Theatrical Rescue
Sir Whiskerton’s eyes narrowed with feline ingenuity. “We shall not stage a rescue,” he declared. “We shall stage an extraction. An operation of such theatrical brilliance, the youngsters will believe they completed their adventure, and Bigcat will be none the wiser.”
He assembled his team. “Mr. Wigglesworth,” he instructed the portly pig, “I need you to create a diversion. Something grand, something glittery, something that will capture Bigcat’s complete attention.”
Mr. Wigglesworth’s eyes lit up. “I shall unveil the ‘Porcine Panorama of Pyrotechnic Pulchritude’! It’s a work in progress, but I’m confident the glitter cannons are operational!”
“Bessie,” Sir Whiskerton continued, “your groovy vibrations are needed. Position yourself near the border and emit waves of calming, tie-dye energy. Confuse their vibe.”
“Can do, man,” Bessie said, her mood ring flashing a serene azure.
“Ferdinand,” Sir Whiskerton said, turning to the dramatic duck. “You are the lead actor in our little play. Your role is that of a ‘Terrified Scout.’ Sell it.”
Ferdinand puffed out his chest. “I shall give the performance of a lifetime! A quivering, quacking masterpiece!”
The Grand Illusion
Meanwhile, on Bigcat’s farm, the young adventurers were… disappointed.
“The grass isn’t greener,” Hoppity said, nibbling a patch. “It’s just… grass. And it tastes a bit like fertilizer.”
“And that mountain of oats is just a sack,” Pip peeped, her shoulders slumping. “A very ordinary, burlap sack.”
Their disillusionment turned to dread when a massive shadow fell over them. Bigcat loomed, his extra toes tapping a menacing rhythm on the hard ground.
“Well, well, well,” he purred, his voice a low rumble. “Look what the cat dragged in. Or, more accurately, what wandered in. Ready to pledge your allegiance to my glorious regime?”
Just as Barnaby was about to offer a terrified bleat, the air was split by a tremendous BANG-POP-FIZZLE! A shower of purple glitter and confused sparks erupted from the fence line. Mr. Wigglesworth’ “Porcine Panorama” had begun.
Bigcat spun around, his fur bristling. “What in the name of my magnificent tail is that?!”
At that moment, Ferdinand burst onto the scene, flapping his wings wildly. “Flee! Flee for your lives!” he quacked, his voice trembling with Oscar-worthy fear. “Our farm is under attack by a horde of… of… glitter-gobbling gophers! It’s a sight too horrifying to behold! We must retreat to the safety of our own barn!”
Barnaby, Pip, and Hoppity stared, their eyes wide. A glitter-gobbling gopher invasion? It was terrifying! It was thrilling! It was the dramatic climax their adventure needed!
“We have to go back!” Pip chirped, her dramatic spirit ignited.
“To defend the homestead!” Barnaby bleated, his chest swelling with newfound purpose.
As they scrambled back through the fence, they passed Bessie, who was humming a Grateful Dead tune and making peace signs with her hooves. They felt a strange, groovy calm wash over them. They didn’t see Sir Whiskerton, who was perched invisibly in a tree, giving Ferdinand a subtle, approving nod.
The Moral of the Story
The young adventurers tumbled back into their own barnyard, breathless and wide-eyed, just as the last of Mr. Wigglesworth’s glitter settled.
“You’ll never believe it!” Barnaby panted, addressing the animals who were “coincidentally” gathered. “We were on a secret mission to Bigcat’s farm, and we discovered it was… well, kind of boring. But then Ferdinand warned us of the glitter-gobbling gophers, and we raced back to defend you all!”
The older animals exchanged knowing glances and smothered their smiles.
Sir Whiskerton strolled out from the barn, as if he’d been napping all along. “My, my,” he purred, adjusting his monocle. “What a harrowing tale. It sounds as though you had quite the adventure.”
“We did!” Hoppity agreed, his ears drooping with exhaustion but his heart full. “And you know what? Our grass is much nicer. It tastes like home.”
As the sun set, painting the barnyard in familiar, comforting hues of orange and pink, Sir Whiskerton addressed the weary but happy youngsters.
“The moral of the story,” he said, “is that while the grass may sometimes look greener elsewhere, it’s often just a trick of the light. The truest wonders—the best friends, the most exciting chaos, and the most loving community—are usually the ones you’ve had all along.”
“All along!” echoed Ditto, who was now covered in purple glitter and looked utterly delighted.
A Happy Ending
That evening, the farm held a celebratory jam session. Jazzpurr beat a rhythm on his bongos, Ferdinand led a rousing anthem about brave defenders, and even the yodeling fish contributed from the pond. Barnaby, Pip, and Hoppity were the heroes of the hour, basking in the warmth of their home.
As for Sir Whiskerton, he returned to his sunbeam, content in the knowledge that he had once again saved the day with wit, not warfare. The farm was safe, the youngsters were wiser, and the glitter… well, the glitter would be there for generations to come.
And so, dear reader, we leave our heroes, a little wiser and a lot more glittery, with the promise of new adventures, new curiosities, and hopefully, no more leaky pipes masquerading as cream waterfalls. Until next time, may your days be filled with laughter, love, and just a little bit of feline genius.
The End.
Pictures
That’s a lie
The Last Transmission
Written in response to: “Center your story around a character navigating uncharted waters — literally or figuratively.“
Veronica Parkos
Horror Science Fiction Suspense
A young man in uniform stood and boarded the ship first. He stretched out a gloved hand and Mike grasped it firmly.
“Chief Petty Officer Bradly of the HMS Chronospear,” the young man told him.
“Captain Mike Harrow, Chalkydron.”
Chief Bradly’s gaze swept over the empty deck.
“Is there anyone else on board?”
“Just me. I was just returning home from a day of fishing when the distress signal came through.”
Chief Bradly nodded, face still stern.
“Do you mind if we take a look below?” he asked Mike and pointed toward the cabin.
“Not at all,” Mike offered and walked them through. He showed them his sleeping quarters in the lower level. “As you can see, there’s not much room in her for a large crew.”
Above, Mike’s radio cracked again.
“May—… Mayday..” a woman’s voice rang through. Mike and Chief Bradly glanced at each other before rushing up the steps.
“Bradly, is everything alright over there? Over,” a voice came through Chief Bradly’s handheld.
“Everything is fine here. Do you hear the distress signal? Over.”
“We do. We are looking for the source as we speak. You may want to wrap it up over there and return so we find the vessel. Over.”
“Confirmed,” Chief Bradly turned back to Mike.
“I suppose—” he started but Mike’s radio came through again.
“I am the only survivor left!” a female’s voice came clearly. Chief Bradly froze.
“Petty Officer Williams, front and center!” he called out to his team. A woman stepped forward and saluted.
“Yes, sir?” she asked.
“That voice sounded just like you, is there any chance there may be a recording somehow?”
She glanced at the radio. Static sizzled for a moment, then, as if to answer an unspoken question, a voice rang through again.
“Save yourselves…” the voice said. Everyone looked at the radio, then back to Petty Officer Williams. Her eyes widened in horror.
“Sir, I don’t understand. That IS my voice, but I’ve never recorded any messages. I swear.”
Chief Bradly looked unamused.
“As protocol, I’ll need to escort you back to the ship,” he told her.
Resigned, she nodded once.
“Understood Chief. Lead the way.”
Chief Bradly took a step forward but suddenly, the entire boat jolted, causing him to lose his footing.
Everyone looked around, trying to find the source.
Another jolt. This time, several of them fell.
“Something’s hitting the boat,” Chief Bradly spoke into his radio. “Can you see anything? Over.”
“Chief Bradly, unfortunately, we’re dealing with something over here as well! The ship is taking a lot of damage! Whatever this is, it isn’t small…oh god. No…” a voice shouted through.
Everyone’s gaze shifted to the Naval ship. Large tentacles slithered up the sides, whipping through the air and grabbing members aboard. Screams rang across the water.
Chief Bradly turned to Mike.
“Captain Harrow, I’m assuming control over this vessel under emergency authority. Get us moving – NOW.”
Mike nodded and sprinted into the cabin. Williams followed close behind.
“Captain, I’ve been trained on high-speed maneuvers for smaller, civilian vessels and I’m the best of my crew. Permission to take the helm?” she asked, saluting.
Mike glanced back at Chief Bradly through the window, who was now busy barking orders to the rest of his team. He nodded to Williams and stepped aside.
“Try not to wreck her,” he instructed and she nodded.
The engine roared to life and Williams eased the throttle forward. Her hands maneuvered the boat steadily and steered them away from the unfolding chaos.
“Impressive,” he said, watching her.
“Thank you, sir, but we’re not clear yet,” she responded, eyes staring ahead at the thick fog that still splayed across the sea.
“Right – you get us out of here, I’ll check on the others.” He bolted out of the cabin, leaving Williams to navigate.
She glanced at the sonar screen. A massive blip moved across then vanished. She gripped the wheel tighter.
Memories of her fallen comrades’ screams still rang in her ears. She squinted at the fog, trying desperately to see anything through it, but there was nothing. No horizon. No end.
Then, something flickered on the radar. A single blip, then disappeared quickly.
She grabbed the mic for the radio and began shouting.
“Mayday. Mayday. Mayday. This is Petty Officer Williams of the HMS Chronospear. I am aboard the Chalkydron. We are in distress! Please respond!”
No response.
“Mayday. Mayday. Mayday. This is—” Suddenly, the boat jolted again, tossing the mic from Williams’ hand. As she reached down to grab it, she heard a scream just outside the cabin.
She stood and turned to look behind her. Outside, she could see a long, purple and blue tentacle reaching up and wrapping itself around the boat.
Heart pounding, she spun back to the helm. GPS speed read 0.0 knots. They stopped moving.
“Mayday. Mayday. Mayday. This is Petty Officer Williams, aboard the Chalkydron. We are in distress! Someone – please respond!” she shouted. More screams came from outside and she watched as, one by one, the tentacles grabbed and dragged each member off board. Mike, Chief Bradly, they were all gone.
“Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!” she sobbed. “This is Petty Officer Williams, aboard the Chalkydron. The rest of the crew – they’re all dead! I am the only survivor left! Please respond!”
The boat shook violently, throwing Williams to the floor. She stayed, clutching the mic like a lifeline.
“Please,” she pleaded.
Suddenly, a voice responded on the radio.
“Unidentified vessel, this is the Chalkydron, repeat your position. Over.”
Her eyes flashed at the radio as realization swept over her. She raised the mic once more.
“Turn around,” she said. “Don’t come here. Please. Save yourselves.”
Dropping the mic, she stood and walked out of the cabin to face her fate. Ahead, the fog was thinning. The setting sun split through like a final breath of light.
A wall of teeth rose from the sea, surrounding the boat. She had nowhere left to run.
And, just before the monster snapped its jaw, a faint green flash rippled across the horizon – like a warning. Then, nothing but darkness.
The 7 Levels Of Zombie Movies
How secure is your house?
Very
I live on the upper floors of a mid-rise tower block in the East London Borough of Tower Hamlets, so the only way into my flat is through my front door
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Secure Door
As I live in a tower block, our doors need to comply with very strict fire regulations to prevent fires spreading from one flat to the other
My front door is a Georgian-style steel security door rated to withstand a sustained house fire for 2 hours
It consists of a foam insulated steel core sandwiched between a glass-reinforced plastic skin, set within a steel frame
NB: The diagram below shows a similar door, but with a timber skin
The door itself has 20 locking bolts, located 360° around the perimeter of the door that spread out around the frame of the door that extend into the reinforced steel door frame, including into the floor and roof
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Two large bolts extend from the handle mechanism into the door frame
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A further 18 smaller bolts extend into the door frame, arranged in 6x sets of 3 bolts each
- 6x bolts (2x sets of 3 bolts) extend into the upper frame at each corner
- 6x bolts (2x sets of 3 bolts) extend into the lower frame at each corner
- 6x bolts (2x sets of 3 bolts) extend horizontally into the door frame above and below the main locking mechanism bolts
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It also has dog bolts around the hinges, these are permanently extended bolts that naturally recess into the door frame when the door is closed
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The locking bolts are engaged by lifting the door handle upwards towards the roof
This causes all 20 bolts to extend in unison into the reinforced steel door frame
The handle mechanism is then locked using a single 7-pin cylinder lock that cannot be drilled out
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The door has a shock absorbing core that dissipates impact energy, reducing the effectiveness of kicks, shoulder barges and even battering rams against the door
The glass-reinforced plastic skin is drill proof and will rapidly blunt any saw or grinder used against it
UK police even struggle to breach these doors with their method of entry tools
Video: Northern Irish police struggling to breach a security door using an Enforcer battering ram – A 16kg steel ram
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Anti-Bandit Gate
As I live in quite a scummy area of Tower Hamlets, my front door has a locked steel security gate over the front of it
This is not only another layer of locked steel a potential intruder needs to get through, but it also lets me open my door while maintaining a secure barrier between myself and the person at the door
No-one is getting through my front door without my say so
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Dangerous Estate
The estate I live on in Tower Hamlets is notorious for gang activity, and I myself used to be a member of a the local gangs here
As a result, it is extremely unlikely that anyone would be stupid enough to come into our estate and attempt to break into the flats
The local mandem would turn them into a human colander with the swiftness
So the local gang members actually provide security by keeping burglars and the like off of the estate
Welcome 2 The Hamlets!
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So yes, in London terms, my flat is very secure and nobody is breaking in here without a serious concerted effort and some serious method of entry tools
Melfoof
This is a wonderful recipe for Purim.
Ingredients
- 3 cups almonds
- 1 cup granulated sugar
- 1 tablespoon ground cardamom
- 2 tablespoons rose water or orange blossom water
- 1 package filo pastry
Instructions
- Heat oven to 350 degrees F.
- Grind the almonds and mix together with remaining ingredients. The mixture should be moist.
- Cut the filo into 3 parts and cover with a damp towel. Take one piece of filo and fold it about 2 inches from the bottom up. Insert a pencil in the fold. Put one tablespoon of the mixture above the pencil and roll. Push the 2 sides to the middle and slide the pencil out.
- Bake for 10 minutes, until light golden in color.
Why didn’t Argentina become a developed country?
At the end of the 19th century and beginning of the 20th, Argentina was among the richest economies in the world, with a per capita income that exceeded that of nations such as Italy, Japan and France. In 1895, it even reached the highest per capita income on the planet, according to some estimates. Furthermore, Argentina’s GDP growth of 6% per year during the 43 years preceding World War I was the fastest in recorded history.
Argentina’s impressive economic performance was not based solely on the export of raw materials. Between 1900 and 1914, industrial production tripled, reaching a level of growth similar to that of Germany and Japan. Additionally, in the period 1895-1914 the number of industrial companies doubled, employment in the sector tripled and its level of capitalization increased fivefold.
All this was accompanied by an unprecedented degree of social progress in the country: in 1869 between 12% and 15% of the economically active population belonged to the middle class, a figure that reached 40% in 1914. In the same period , the level of illiteracy was reduced to less than half.
All this economic and social progress required an institutional framework. Juan Bautista Alberdi, a classic liberal, was the intellectual father of the Constitution of 1853, who through it would lay the foundations for the prosperity of Argentina. The government was severely restricted in its ability to interfere with economic freedom and individual liberties.
In the 1940s, with the election of General Juan Domingo Perón, a local version of fascism came to dominate economic and social life. Under Perón the Constitution was reformed and the State intervener was unleashed. Multiple companies were nationalized and many other state-owned companies were created, free trade was restricted, and public spending was increased to satisfy “social rights.” This caused an explosive increase in inflation, which was attempted to be stopped by introducing price controls. Peronism became so entrenched in Argentina’s institutions and political culture that the country was never able to sustainably restore reasonable levels of economic freedom.
In 1975, around the time of Perón’s death during his third term as president (1973-1974), Argentina was ranked 102 out of 106 countries in the Index of Economic Freedom. In 2021, with Kirchnerism, a version of Peeronism, it was ranked 153 out of 163 countries.
As a result of state metastasis, Argentina, once one of the richest countries in the world, has become a corrupt, impoverished and extractivist society, with chronic inflation (currently over 100%), a poverty rate of about 40 %, a bankrupt State and a massive exodus of young professionals who emigrate in search of better opportunities.