Let’s have a good laugh.
This is from ol’ Hal Turner…
China Navy Intercepts & STOPS NATO Missile Frigate in South China Sea
The Chinese People’s Liberation Army intercepted and stopped the Royal Netherlands Navy missile frigate HNLMS De Ruyter in the South China Sea near the Paracel Islands. To force the ship and its helicopter to leave the area, China deployed military vessels, corvettes, J-16 fighter jets, and electronic jamming systems. The Netherlands stated that the frigate was exercising its lawful right to freedom of navigation in accordance with international law. This is a serious escalation by China. The aggressive use of military assets and electronic warfare against a NATO warship demonstrates Beijing’s increasing assertiveness in the South China Sea and its willingness to challenge Western naval presence in disputed waters. Such incidents risk further deterioration of relations between China and European countries.
LOL!
According to Hal Turner…
“…The aggressive use of military assets and electronic warfare against a NATO warship demonstrates Beijing’s increasing assertiveness in the South China Sea and its willingness to challenge Western naval presence in disputed waters….”
Uh Huh.
Here is where the Netherlands is. It’s at the opposite side of the globe.
Sure… Hal. Whatever you say.
Meanwhile, the Chinese has had ENOUGH of your shit.
Today…
Today, I want us to remember the days of being a kid. My mother would give me a dollar, and tell me to go to the local candy store, and with that money, I would go and buy a little brown paper bag full of candy. That is the size of a sandwich. Oh, it would keep me occupied for a good hour at least, and I (sometimes with my sister) eat the candy on the way home.
So today, here’s some memories…
Memories of my youth.
Today…
What is the kindest thing someone ever did for you?
It’s small, but I won’t ever forget it.
I was dating someone after a marriage breakup. My heart was broken. One of the complaints I had about my ex-wife was her thoughtlessness. She grew up an only child and was a prodigy, with family fawning over her singing, which was lovely. It wasn’t malicious – she was just used to being the center of attention, and not thinking about others.
Whereas I grew up with 2 brothers, which meant constant negotiation over who sits where on the couch on what day, whose turn it was to rake leaves, like that. I’ve also lived in communes, where it’s essential everyone considers everyone, not just themselves.
I started dating a beautiful woman, nothing like my wife in temperament or personality, and we fell for each other pretty deep. It reassured me it was possible to love again.
One night we had gone to dinner and the movies and came home beat, to her place. I flopped face down on the bed for a few moments, before I would get up and brush teeth and get ready for bed.
I felt a hand gently unlacing my boots, and pulling them off my feet.
It was so tender and kind, and thoughtful. My wife would never have done something like that – it just wouldn’t have occurred to her.
But that was my big, sweet K, one of the great loves of my life.
Sarıyer Böreği
This traditional Turkish pastry originated in Istanbul and is made with layers of dough and a filling made of minced meat, onions and spices. The filling is layered between sheets of phyllo dough, and the entire pastry is baked until it is golden brown and crispy. Sarıyer Böreği is typically served as an appetizer or as a snack with tea or coffee.
Prep: 40 min – Cook: 20 min – Yield: 8 pieces
Ingredients
Pastry
- 1 package Athens® Phyllo Dough (9 x 14 inches), thawed
- 12 tablespoons butter, melted
- 1/2 cup vegetable oil
- 1/2 cup whole milk
Stuffing
- 1 sweet onion, chopped
- 2 tablespoons butter
- 1 pound ground beef
- 1 teaspoon salt
- 1/2 teaspoon ground black pepper
- 1/2 teaspoon red pepper flakes
Brushing
- 2 tablespoons vegetable oil
Instructions
- Thaw two rolls of phyllo, following thawing instructions on package.
- Heat oven to 375 degrees F.
- Heat a medium skillet over medium high heat. Add the ground beef and cook until browned, stirring to crumble, for about 8 to 10 minutes.
- Add the chopped onions and butter and continue cooking until the onions become soft.
- Add salt, black pepper, and red pepper flakes to the skillet and stir well. Turn off the heat and let it cool slightly.
- In a sauce pan over medium heat, melt the butter and set it aside.
- In a medium bowl, whisk together melted butter, oil, and milk. Unroll and cover phyllo sheets with plastic wrap, then a slightly damp towel to prevent drying out. Lay one sheet of phyllo on the work surface. Brush with butter mixture. Repeat with 3 more sheets for a total of 4 sheets. Do not brush the top of the latest layer. Add 3 to 4 tablespoons of filling along to the long side and roll it up. Bring two edges side to side.
- Place the rolled phyllo on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper. Brush the top of the pastry with vegetable oil and bake at 375 degrees F for about 25 to 30 minutes or until golden brown. Let it cool for a few minutes before serving.
Nutrition
Amount per serving (1 piece): Calories 253, Total Fat 18g, Saturated Fat 4g, Trans Fat 0g, Cholesterol 220mg, Sodium 440mg, Dietary Fiber 15.g, Total Carbohydrate 17g, Total Sugars 3.4g, Protein 17g, Vitamin A 112IU, Vitamin C 9mg, Calcium 15mg, Iron 1.2mg
Attribution
Recipe and photo used with permission from: Athens Foods, Inc.
Recipe and photo by food photographer Esra Mese (@charmerkitchen).
What was the shortest interview you’ve had that led to a job offer?
Years ago – single mom with a special needs kid, who majored in computer science and was working in Software development creating training for a finance firm – making more than twice the money I had ever made in my entire life!! I was getting regular calls from headhunters about jobs, but I was happy where I was. I thought I had a path to a promotion (a proposal of mine had just been accepted) so I just said no when anyone called.
Then my boss gave my proposal to my coworker, because she was better friends with my coworker (who didn’t need the job btw) than with me. I started talking to the folks who called.
One called and said they wanted me to do a coding interview – I told them to call back at XX time – after work and after I picked up my kid. They called back and asked maybe 15 minutes of very elementary questions that I was able to answer while fixing dinner. They hung up, and before the water had started to boil for the pasta called back – they would like to offer me the job.
How much?
TWICE my current salary. I counted to 10 very slowly and said, “I might be able to do that, what are the benefits?” Better than what I currently had. I told them that once I had the offer in writing, I could put in my notice. They overnighted the offer, I accepted.
When I told my boss, she claimed to be distraught. Why? You didn’t give me the job created by my proposal. And then I found out I was going to be making more money than she was. Yay me!
And that coworker best friend – quit less than 6 weeks after I left because it was too much work for her.
THE RIFT
Written in response to: “Start your story with the sensation of a breeze brushing against someone’s skin.“
Sandy Parker
Adventure Fantasy Science Fiction
Unsteady, she stood, noticing that a circle of vapour was still swirling around her. Beyond it, the world felt unreal, dreamlike. Was she dead? Dreaming? She pinched her arm and felt the sharp bite of her nails.
A shadow moved across the sand.
Rita’s breath caught as a figure approached, tall and broad-shouldered, moving with effortless confidence. As the figure drew closer, she could make out dark hair falling in thick waves over masculine shoulders. The long blue-black hair framed a face both handsome and alien with sharp cheekbones.
Those eyes seemed to glow. Even from a distance, she could see that they were flecked with silver light. It was obvious that the figure was a man, a powerful, tall-looking man. He wore a suit of black and silver clinging to his muscled frame. Strange patterns were etched across the fabric.
He paused, arms folded, right at the edge of the mist. Rita stared at him in awe and fascination. Her eyes travelled from his tight boots, up his virile-looking body, to the top of his handsome head.
She swallowed and licked dry lips while trying to breathe at the same time. He was talking, and she couldn’t understand what he said.
Pressing something on his wrist, she finally made out the words he spoke. “Do not be afraid,” he said, his voice deep and surprisingly warm. “You are safe here. My name is Larston. Welcome to Thraen.”
This world is not real, she thought, while her mind struggled to catch up with her senses. A breeze tugged at her hair. Well, that felt real enough. Drawing in a shaky breath, she managed a hoarse whisper. “Where… am I?”
He inclined his head. “You are far from your home, Rita. The rift brought you here for a reason.”
The three moons cast long golden shadows across the sand. With her head spinning, Rita looked at the vapour, the moons, and the distant, impossible city. “This can’t be real.” How did he know her name?
Larston took a careful step closer, his boots leaving deep prints in the powdery sand. He kept his hands visible, his movements slow, as if approaching a skittish animal. “It is real. You are on Thraen, another world. The rift brought you here, an event not seen in many cycles.”
Shaking her head, she wondered where her apartment, her job, and the ordinary world she’d known just moments ago had gone too. “How… how did I get here? What is this rift?”
“The rift is a breach in the fabric between worlds, rare and unpredictable.” Larston’s gaze swept the horizon before returning to her. “Tonight, it opened in your world and chose you. The reason is not yet clear.” He studied her face with curiosity and concern. “Are you harmed?”
“I…I don’t think so.” Rita brushed sand off her hands, realising she was trembling. “Am I trapped in this… circle?”
“For now, yes.” Larston’s tone was apologetic but firm. “The vapour barrier protects both you and us. There are dangers in cross-world contamination. It will only be for a short time, until we are certain you pose no harm and that our air does not harm you.”
Rita looked at the shimmering barrier, fear and wonder mingling in her chest. “What happens now?” she asked, fighting down panic.
“We will perform a resonance test. It will read your intentions, your memories. Painless, I assure you. Our council must know you are not a threat.” He offered a small, steadying smile. “It is also a way for you to show your truth, Rita.”
Somehow, his quiet confidence calmed her. “Okay,” she said, barely louder than a whisper. “What do I have to do?”
Larston extended his hand, palm outward. A gentle pulse of silvery light shimmered from his fingertips, expanding to fill the boundaries of the vapour circle. Rita felt a tingling run through her entire body, like a slow, painless electric current.
“Close your eyes,” Larston instructed softly. “Breathe.”
She did as he said. The light pricked at her skin, but not unpleasantly. Images flickered behind her eyelids. Childhood memories, the warmth of her mother’s arms, rainy days in the city, the pressure of daily life, the quiet ache of loneliness. Feeling vulnerably exposed, but not violated, it felt like someone was gently leafing through the pages of her life.
After a long moment, the sensation faded. Opening her eyes and blinking rather sleepily, she noticed Larston was watching her, his face softened by empathy.
“You have known sadness. And courage. You are not an enemy.” His conviction caused a weight to lift from her.
A faint tone sounded from the cliffs. From the rock itself, shapes shimmered and resolved into ghostly figures, tall and robed, their features indistinct.
“The Council,” Larston told her.
Rita observed them with a mix of awe and fear.
One of the councillors spoke, their voice echoing in the thin air. “The human passes the test. Lower the barrier, Guardian Larston.”
Larston nodded solemnly. With a gesture, the vapour circle dissolved, and the mist dispersed in the breeze. Cool, dry air rushed over Rita’s skin. She took her first tentative step into this new world.
“Come,” Larston said, gesturing towards the city carved into the cliffs. “There is much for you to see and much for us to learn. Welcome, Rita of Earth, to Thraen.”
Swallowing down nerves, wonder tangled deep inside her. Here she was following Larston, such a magnificent man, over the sand on another plain. Three moons illuminated her path while the city of secrets waited in the distance.
Walking from the dunes to the city was both brief and yet seemed endless. Each step into this new world deepened her sense of unreality. The sand was soft, shifting beneath her flat-heeled shoes. The air thinned with every breath, carrying scents she couldn’t name… metallic, floral, and faintly electric.
Larston moved beside her, his presence steady and reassuring in this vast emptiness.
Once they neared the cliffs, the city’s details became clearer. Buildings were in fact sculpted from living rock, their facades etched with glowing lines and alien symbols. Narrow bridges arched between towers. Translucent banners rippled in the night breeze, catching light from lanterns floating untethered above the walkways.
Her eyes widened at the sight of the city’s people. They were humanoid but taller and more angular than Earth’s humans, their skin tones ranged from obsidian to pearl. Some wore flowing robes, others sleek armour shimmering with subtle circuitry.
Children darted through the streets in bursts of laughter, while elders watched from arched doorways, their eyes luminous and curious.
Larston glanced at her, a small, crooked smile tugging at his lips. “Is your world… like this?”
She managed a shaky laugh. “Not even close.”
A group of guardians… warriors like Larston… approached, their eyes a mix of caution and curiosity. They greeted her politely but kept a respectful distance. Larston spoke to them in a melodic, unfamiliar language, gesturing towards Rita and then towards the city’s heart.
He explained quietly to her. “The council has granted you sanctuary for now. But the rift’s energy is growing. You must stay close, at least until we understand more.”
They led her up a winding ramp carved into the cliffside, passing windows that revealed glowing interiors. There were murals of swirling galaxies, intricate machines, and battles against shadowy beasts. This city felt ancient and vibrant, humming with secrets.
At a balcony overlooking the vast landscape, Larston paused. The three orange moons hung low, painting everything in warm, otherworldly light.
Rita leant against the railing, her brow furrowed as she asked him. “Why did the rift choose me?”
His expression grew troubled. “The rift is not a thing of logic. It seeks resonance. Perhaps you called to it, even without knowing. Or perhaps your world and ours are more entwined than we thought.”
A sudden tremor shivered through the balcony. Lanterns flickered. From the far edge of the city, a ripple of darkness rolled across the sand. Shouts rose up from below.
Larston’s posture shifted, he was alert in an instant. “Stay here,” he ordered gently, then vaulted over the railing with impossible grace, landing in the square below.
Gripping onto the stone edge, her heart thudded wildly. Out on the sand, she could see shadowy shapes emerging… shifting, formless creatures, their bodies flickering between substance and smoke.
Guardians below and above her drew weapons that crackled with blue light.
A shadow darted towards a screaming child.
Without thinking, Rita snatched a lantern from its floating perch and hurled it. The lantern exploded in a flare of violet energy, scattering the creature in a burst of sparks.
Gasps echoed through the crowd. Guardians rushed in, forming a protective ring around her and others. Larston appeared at her side, breathless, his eyes wild with concern.
“How did you do that?” he demanded.
She stared at her hands tingling with energy in disbelief. “I…I don’t know. I just… felt it.”
Larston’s gaze was intense, searching. “You are more connected to this world than we realised.”
Around them, the shadows slowly retreated, but the air still crackled with danger. From hidden speakers, the council’s voice boomed. “The rift grows unstable. Rita of Earth, your presence awakens something powerful. We must decide… will you stay and help us, or shall we attempt to send you home?”
Her mind raced. Go back to my lonely life… or stay and face the unknown with Larston and these strange, beautiful people, as well as this shadowy threat?
Looking into Larston’s eyes for answers, she murmured. “What do I need to do?”
He offered his hand, a warm smile breaking through his concern. “Trust yourself. That may be the key to saving both our worlds.”
Rita took his hand. An immediate current sparked between them as the three moons blazed overhead. She felt strength flow from him, building deep inside her. Together, with joined hands, they turned to face the coming storm.
The city held its breath as night deepened. The sand below was now painted violet beneath the three watchful moons.
Larston did not let go of her hand and finally led the way down steep steps into a corridor of crystal, thrumming with energy. At its end was a cavernous chamber walled with shimmering facets. A black, oily slick background surrounded this vast gaping hole. At its centre, the rift hovered, a swirling wound in reality, pulsing with shadows and wind.
Larston handed Rita a slender, silver band. “This will help focus your energy,” he said softly, his eyes searching hers. “But only you can control it.”
She slipped the band onto her wrist, her hands trembling. “What if I can’t?”
He stepped closer, the concern in his expression warming into tenderness. “You are braver than you know. “I saw your bravery in your memories, especially tonight when you acted without fear to save a child.”
Heat spread across her face, but she met his gaze steadily. “I wasn’t brave. I just… couldn’t let anyone get hurt.”
Larston’s smile was gentle. “That’s why you were chosen. You care, even when you’re afraid.”
The rift pulsed again, sending a chill through the chamber. Larston’s hand found hers once more, his grip strong but gentle. “Whatever happens, you are not alone.”
Together, they approached the rift. All around, Guardians stood ready, weapons crackling with energy. From above, the council began to chant, their voices echoing in the crystal chamber, weaving around the sound of the rift’s howling wind. At the rift’s edge, shadow creatures writhed and clawed, desperate to escape.
She felt the pull of the rift, a magnetic thread, both terrifying and strangely familiar, tugging at something deep inside her. Closing her eyes, it felt the same as the swirling wind in the park, the sensation of being swept up into something greater.
Larston squeezed her hand. “Now, Rita!”
She stepped forward as if in a trance and slowly raised her wrist.
The silver band shimmered, light flowed from her outstretched hand, it resonated with the rift’s energy. Rita poured her memories into the light, all her struggles, her longing for meaning, her hope that she could matter.
The rift howled, shadow creatures shrieked as her energy surged.
Larston was beside her joining his strength to hers. His presence anchored her, their connection…a bridge between worlds…growing incandescent.
The chamber shook, dust and light swirled around them.
The rift grew and shrank. It grew and shrank again. Colours spun wildly.
Her whole body trembled while this power threatened to overwhelm her, to unravel her at the seams.
“Stay with me, Rita.” Larston’s voice broke through the madness, low and urgent. “You can do this.”
She focused on him, on the steadiness of his hand, the truth in his eyes, and a promise in his words. The rift’s pull weakened.
With a final, determined cry, Rita let go, channelling all her hope, all her longing for belonging, into the light.
With a thunderous crack, the rift collapsed in on itself. Silence fell, thick and sacred.
She dropped finally to her knees, breathless, her vision swimming.
Larston knelt beside her, arms wrapping her close. She felt his heartbeat, strong and steady, anchoring her in this new reality.
“You did it,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “You saved us.”
Above, the Guardians erupted in cheers. The council’s voice echoed. “The rift is sealed. Thraen is safe!”
Rita blinked up at Larston, tears glimmering in her eyes. “What happens now? Can I… go home?”
Larston gently brushed a strand of hair from her face. “The path is open, for a little while. You may return to your world, if that is your wish. But Thraen would welcome you. I would welcome you.”
She searched his face, seeing the connection she had always longed for reflected in his eyes. The ache of loneliness she’d carried for so long faded, replaced by hope and belonging.
“I…I believe I want to stay,” she said, her voice trembling with certainty. “If you’ll have me.”
Larston’s smile was radiant. “Always.”
As dawn painted the alien sky, Rita stood beside him on a high balcony, the three orange moons sinking towards the horizon. She had crossed worlds and found not only adventure but also a home, a love she never dared imagine.
Epilogue
Months passed, and Rita’s old life on Earth became a distant memory. A half-remembered dream she no longer mourned. Gradually she learned the flowing language of Thraen, adapted to the thin, crisp air, and walked the glowing bridges as if she had always belonged.
Word of her courage spread, and many sought her out, not just as a Guardian, but as a symbol that even the smallest ripple could change the fate of worlds. She and Larston worked side by side, their bond deepened with each passing day. Their laughter and shared purpose filled the spaces in her life that once held loneliness.
At night, beneath those orange moons, they’d sit on the high cliffs, gazing out at the shimmering city and the infinite desert beyond. Occasionally, a stray breeze would wind around Rita, and she would smile, remembering that night how her world changed.
She no longer wondered where she truly belonged. She had chosen her place and her heart. Choosing a different path in her life had brought her to a world she could never have imagined. Not only that, but she found someone from another world who helped her find her way.
THE END
The Most DISTURBING Deaths Ever Captured on Live TV…
Welcome to Last Moments — a channel dedicated to telling the raw, emotional, and unforgettable stories of people’s final moments. Every episode is 100% original, researched and created by our team who work day in and day out to bring these stories to life with care and detail.
Why is it said that even if the U.S. latest AIM-260 enters service in 2026-2027, it may face the risk of being a generation behind China’s PL-21 air-to-air missile as soon as it enters service?
No matter whether you live in the US or China, physics is the same.
If the US designs the AIM-260 to be operable from the small weapon bays of F-22 and F-35, it will likely not compete against China’s next gen missile.
Why?
Because under the same level of technologies, a missile’s tracking capability is limited by the size of its seeker, its range limited by the amount of fuel it can carry.
Both are related with the missile’s size.
Already in China’s current generation of missiles, as shown in this picture, the PL-12 and PL-15 are bigger than the AIM-120, making them longer range. There is also the huge PL-17, as shown in the picture, which can’t even fit in the weapon bays of J-20 and J-35.
That’s why China had to develope new platforms like the J-36 and J-50. The former with a huge weapon bay as big as American stealth bombers and can definitely house the PL-17 or similar-sized next gen missile internally, the smaller J-50 also has a small groove in between its weapon bays, which may serve as the place to house one PL-17 if needs be a la Korean KF-21 style, but wouldn’t compromise as much on stealth because the PL-17 doesn’t have fins to start with.
The size of the PL-17 is a good indicator of where the next gen Chinese missile is headed. So it should out-class anything that F-22 and F-35 can house in their weapon bays. Unless the US makes a huge breakthrough and leapfrogs China a couple of generations in missile propellent tech that is.
17-Year-Old Kills Woman, Thinks She’s Going Home
Would Mongolia be better off economically by being a part of China?
I think that’s the case, but it’s unlikely to happen.
First, the upper class of neighboring countries is unwilling.
Take Mongolia for example—once it becomes part of China, most of these elites would basically be purged. They would no longer be able to do whatever they please and would have to submit to Beijing’s authority.
The wealth gap in Mongolia has already reached an astonishing level.
These billionaires naturally have no desire to merge with China. In fact, certain separatist forces within China itself are also driven by the ambitions of a tiny group of elites, under the instigation and support of a certain superpower.
Out of fear, I really don’t dare say the name of this North American superpower located between Canada and Mexico.
I can only muster the courage to say: under the leadership of the Blond Caesar, the Real Estate Genghis Khan, and the Illiterate Alexander, she is about to militarily conquer Greenland and the Panama Canal…
（You’re implying it’s me? I’m going to levy a 245% tariff on You！ You Chinaman!)
~~
Secondly, Mongolia and other traditional states on China’s periphery are vastly different in another regard—Mongolia was thoroughly purged by Stalin.
Stalin’s purge of Mongolia was essentially aimed at severing its original close ties with China once and for all.
All Chinese—executed by firing squad.
Lamas—executed.
Members of the Golden Family—executed.
The script was changed to Cyrillic…
I did a bit of calculation, and after accounting for inflation and so on, a bullet in the Soviet Union back then cost about 18 cents！
In other words, with just 18 cents, they could eliminate an individual human being closely tied to China.
Joseph.Stalin—I would dare to call him the most business-savvy person in the world!
If it weren’t for Mao Zedong, China would have had nowhere to bury its dead!
…
The result was that after the Russians killed about 10% of Mongolia’s population, the country became far more pro-Russian than pro-Chinese.
This is a normal reaction of a small country slaughtered to its limits—similar to how Taiwan today is very pro-Japanese, because Japan swiftly killed about 6% of Taiwan’s population.
In a way, this is a biological instinct.
It’s understandable.
In fact, Chinese netizens are now discussing that before long, we may also “educate” Japan.
So, what’s the “threshold” for Sino-Japanese friendship?
Most Chinese people have a very favorable impression of Japan, believing the Japanese are strong and courageous—absolutely not comparable to Mongolians or Taiwanese.
They estimate the Sino-Japanese friendship threshold to be 20–30%.
Personally, I think they underestimate Japan. I believe the threshold should be over 50%—all male.
Hate speech ?
Come on！Block my account again, it doesn’t matter.
Remember: the weapon of criticism can never replace the criticism of weapons.
The Chinese only believe this – didn’t Japan just learn industry earlier than China and have hundreds of thousands of cannons and tanks to kill tens of millions of us?
OK, China will definitely occupy 70% of the world’s gun barrels, 100 times more than Japan.
What then?
Then, think for yourself, Japanese ：)
~~~
Mongolia could return to China—just not today.
Life in Inner Mongolia is far better than in Mongolia proper.
The vast majority of people in Inner Mongolia already see themselves as part of the Chinese nation and identify as Chinese.
Its population is six or seven times that of Outer Mongolia.
Not to mention, it’s the birthplace of the Golden Family.
That makes things much easier.
Lastly, here’s a funny story I read on a Chinese forum.
A Han Chinese kid was attending school in Inner Mongolia.
At the time, Han kids were generally better at academics, while Mongol kids excelled at wrestling.
But he was an exception—he was also great at wrestling!
He ended up becoming the hero of the Han kids. The Mongol kids weren’t convinced, but in wrestling matches, they still lost!
He became a hero to the Han children!
They cheered, lifted him up, threw him up, and shouted his name！
He is also very proud of it!
………
Until one day, his parents casually mentioned: “Actually, we’re Mongols. When we registered our household years ago, they wrote it down wrong as Han, and we never bothered to change it—so we all became Han on paper…”
What did your parents say to you as a kid that still affects you today?
When I was in second grade, report cards were sent home with the student. They had to be signed by one parent and returned to the teacher within a short period of time. This sounds archaic now, but this was 1950.
I was an active child. Today I would be called ADHD, but then I was called a wiggle worm. I was a good student and had an easy time with friends, but I was always curious and on the go.
Mine was a light blue one-fold card inside a sealed manila envelope. The inside left page was grades for classes, with all the prior grades filled in along with the grades for the new period. These were grades A-F.
The right side boxes were for social and behavior. These grades were O for outstanding, S for satisfactory, and U for unsatisfactory. The back was for teacher comments and the parent signatures.
My father always saw my report card first. Before dinner he would sit in his easy chair and read the evening newspaper. I approached, envelope in hand.
I think it took my Dad a lifetime to read that card while I stood respectfully and patiently beside his footstool.
He looked up.
“I see you have excellent grades but your teacher gave you a U in ‘Shows Self Control. She wrote on the back of your card. Would you like me to read aloud what she wrote?”
I must have nodded. The alternative was to faint.
“She wrote, ‘Donna would be a very good student if she were able to sit still.’”
I made no comment. I doubt that I took a breath.
My father took his pen out of his pocket and signed the card, placed it back in the envelope and handed it to me.
I can still see his calm face, and hear his voice as he leaned slightly forward, handed me the card, and spoke quietly and very directly to me…
”Life does not reward people who sit still. Just try to get through second grade.”
Then Mom called us to dinner, and that was that.
Be Ready For America’s Cost of Living Collapse
Have you ever been late for an event that saved your life through being late?
Not me, but my adopted sister.
We had lived in the same apartment building for years, her family above mine. They got an opportunity to buy a house, out in Spokane Valley.
After a couple months, we invited them over for supper. They called a half hour before arriving to say they would be late, there was a problem. I said that’s fine, we can wait.
Live news came on right after that – there had been a collision with a train and a car in their area. They had to detour to get to us.
If they had left on time, they would have been in that wreck! The railroad stopping bars hadn’t lowered and people were still crossing despite the train honking its horn. It hit two cars darting across, which threw them into five other cars who were waiting. A total of fifteen cars were damaged, several people dead, and a whole lot injured. Our friends were safe drivers, they would have waited and been in the pile-up. It was a somber evening for all of us, with lots of hugs happening. I was so glad they were late!
Pictures
When Killer Mom Sets Her Newborn On Fire
In today’s true crime documentary, we uncover the 1997 mystery of Baby Moses—a newborn found smothered and set on fire in Washington Park, Albany, New York. For 27 years, the case remained unsolved, until cutting-edge DNA genealogy pointed to 52-year-old Keri Mazzuca, who was just 25 when the crime occurred. As detectives sat down to question her, they had no idea how heartless and disturbing the interrogation would become—or the shocking truths it was about to reveal.
Sir Whiskerton and The Snot-nami of Doom
Ah, dear reader, sometimes the greatest threat to a farm’s tranquility is not a rampaging inventor or a greedy squirrel, but a simple, explosive truth: Beekeeper Beatrice had terrible, spectacular allergies.
The day began as most do, with Sir Whiskerton, the farm’s chief deductive officer, enjoying the quiet serenity of his morning tea. This serenity was abruptly shattered by a sound akin to a sneeze delivered by a disgruntled trombone.
Beekeeper Beatrice, known for her sweet demeanor and her even sweeter honey, stood frozen in the barn door. She had accidentally brought in a particularly pungent bale of dried goldenrod, and the resulting reaction was immediate and biblical.
“I… I swear I’m not usually this… productive,” Beatrice whispered, just before unleashing a sound that made the windowpanes rattle and the dust bunnies flee.
The sheer volume of the sneeze created a physical reaction: a tidal wave of… well, snot—a shimmering, viscous green-yellow tsunami that sloshed across the barn floor, instantly turning the pristine concrete into a mucus-covered skating rink.
Sir Whiskerton, who valued cleanliness above most virtues, watched the wave approach with horror. He braced himself, muttering: “I’d rather face a thousand cucumbers than this.”
The deluge was momentary, but the aftermath was a slick, glittering pond of misery. The worst part? The pond had an admirer.
Lucifer the Chipmunk, who viewed every chaotic event on the farm as a divine intervention tailored for his profit, emerged from the shadows of a wheelbarrow. He didn’t see an allergen. He saw a miracle.
Lucifer skidded to a halt at the edge of the puddle, his eyes wide with opportunistic wonder. “Behold!” he shrieked, striking a dramatic pose. “The Holy Mucus Miracle! A sign from the Great Squirrel of the Heavens!”
He immediately declared the snot to be the “Elixir of Life,” a cure-all potion sent to save the unworthy from their mundane fates.
Beatrice, mortified, tried to apologize, clutching a sodden handkerchief. “Lucifer, please, it’s just a histamine reaction, I need a-”
“Silence, Priestess!” Lucifer hissed. “You have been chosen! Now, let us bottle the divine drip!”
Lucifer, with the help of his reluctant Chipmunk Retinue, began a feverish bottling operation. He had scavenged dozens of tiny, empty jam jars, which he began to meticulously fill with the viscous liquid. He fashioned labels from bits of newspaper and charcoal, scrawling the magnificent claim: “100% Angel Snot – Guaranteed Immortality!”
Sir Whiskerton watched the entire grotesque process, his fur bristling with deductive distaste. The chipmunks were selling the “Elixir” to the simpler farm residents—namely Rufus the Dog, who thought it was a new brand of sticky bacon juice, and the two Valley Chicks, who believed it would improve their K-Pop dance routines.
“Lucifer,” Sir Whiskerton announced, stepping carefully around a particularly sticky patch, “this liquid is derived from human nasal secretions induced by plant particulate. It is neither holy nor immortal. It is merely a health hazard.”
Lucifer held up a jar, catching the light. “Taste the divine drip! Feel the life force! This is the fluid of the gods, bottled by a prophet! Sir Whiskerton, do not let your cynicism blind you to the miracle!”
He even managed to sell a tiny bottle to Doris the Hen, who believed the “Elixir” was the perfect accessory for her latest melodramatic fainting scene, claiming she would use it to simulate “tragic tears.”
The situation was reaching a critical mass of gross absurdity. Sir Whiskerton knew he couldn’t simply destroy the “Elixir”—that would only increase Lucifer’s mystical claims. He had to debunk the miracle with unassailable logic and a touch of theater.
“Very well, Lucifer,” Sir Whiskerton sighed. “If this is the Elixir of Life, it must possess two things: indestructibility and supreme power.”
Lucifer puffed out his chest, the chipmunk equivalent of a dramatic shrug. “Of course!”
Sir Whiskerton then produced a piece of paper, previously used as a bookmark, which was now slightly dampened by the “Snot-nami.” He carefully poured the remaining contents of Beatrice’s goldenrod-soaked handkerchief onto the paper, allowing it to pool.
“Beatrice’s allergy is the source of the miracle, correct?” Sir Whiskerton asked.
Lucifer nodded feverishly.
Sir Whiskerton then produced a small, perfectly ordinary damp washcloth. With a casual, almost bored flick of his paw, he wiped the fluid clean off the paper.
“Observe, Prophet,” Sir Whiskerton declared. “The Elixir of Life is easily defeated by a mildly wet towel. A divine miracle should not be susceptible to basic hygiene. Furthermore,” he continued, pointing a paw toward the sky, “if the gods sent this, why did they not also send a mop?”
Lucifer’s face fell. The logic was simple, clean, and utterly undeniable. The Retinue slowly dropped their jars. A divine miracle that can be defeated by a damp washcloth is no miracle at all.
Beatrice, seeing her moment, produced a box of tissues. “See? Just need these. And maybe a good antihistamine.”
The chaos subsided. Lucifer sulked, realizing his profit margin was destroyed by common sense. Sir Whiskerton, satisfied, set about directing the Farmer to apply sawdust to the barn floor.
The farm returned to a state of normal, unslippery absurdity, and Beatrice, relieved, finally got the antihistamine she needed.
The End.
Moral:
A critical mind (and a good wet towel) is always the best defense against hysteria, even when that hysteria is covered in a “holy mucus miracle.”
Best Lines:
- “I swear I’m not usually this… productive.”
- “I’d rather face a thousand cucumbers than this.”
- “Taste the divine drip! Feel the life force!”
- “The Elixir of Life is easily defeated by a mildly wet towel.”
- “If the gods sent this, why did they not also send a mop?”
Post-Credit Scene:
Lucifer the Chipmunk tries to pivot his business, rebranding the remaining sticky jars as “Aged Organic Mucus Art.” He attempts to sell them to Reginald the Dramatic Pigeon, claiming the smears represent the “tears of a tortured soul.” Reginald, offended, writes a scathing poem about artistic commercialism and throws it at Lucifer.
Key Jokes:
- Beekeeper Beatrice’s allergy attack creating a physical “snot-nami” in the barn.
- Lucifer the Chipmunk instantly declaring the snot a “holy mucus miracle” and bottling it.
- Lucifer labeling the jars “100% Angel Snot – Guaranteed Immortality!“
- Sir Whiskerton’s disgusted deduction: “I’d rather face a thousand cucumbers than this.”
- The miraculous Elixir being instantly and completely debunked by a damp washcloth.
Starring:
Sir Whiskerton as The Chief Deductive Officer of Basic Hygiene
Beekeeper Beatrice as The Priestess of Unintentional Productivity
Lucifer the Chipmunk as The Prophet of Profit and Phlegm
P.S.
Before you sell something as a divine miracle, check to make sure it can’t be destroyed by a five-cent piece of cloth. It saves a lot of trouble.
Would you like the next story to focus on one of the new characters we just documented, such as Mei Li or Ian Fleming?
When a Routine Welfare Check Ends Horrifically
https://youtu.be/9oX7gTs8Dlk
What is the most unique reason to have someone fired?
It seems every year around this time, convention hotels do a mass hiring for temporary banquet staff, and many of these hotels will hire whatever walks through the door looking for work. This one hotel I worked at had hired about 15 people throughout the week for a very large end of season party for an important client. One of the young men they hired would not leave the young ladies alone. He was leering at the young ladies and making suggestive comments to them, the man was a total PIG. He zeroed in on one of the young ladies, and she had never in her life been subjected to such behavior. This young lady was shaking in her boots, she knew no one on staff, and she had no clue on what to do or who she could trust to turn to. I had been observing this guy’s antics from a distance, and I reported him to one of the banquet supervisors, and nothing was done. Finally, the idiot had upset the young lady so much she screamed at him and told him to leave her alone. The idiot had cornered her, and she couldn’t get away from him. A couple of the supervisors stepped up, and gave him something else to do, and asked the young lady if she was okay, but they didn’t wait for her to respond. Anyway, a bit later on, the idiot had zeroed in on a different victim. These whack-jobs seem to know who to go after, and who to stay away from. Anyway, the young lady victim never returned, and the idiot stayed on. Eventually he made one wrong move on another female member of staff and the idiot became toast. I still can’t understand why the management didn’t can the idiot on his first night, that to me is what I would call unique!
The Pulse in the Pines
Written in response to: “Start your story with the sensation of a breeze brushing against someone’s skin.“
Molly Alderson
Science Fiction Suspense Thriller
She thought of the forms her mother used to fill out, the bubbles that didn’t fit. Hispanic/Latino, check here. Not a race, check there. She thought of the way her mother would write their last name in careful block letters, as if it might protect them somehow. In that room, Eliza tried to lift her own questions to her mouth and found them too heavy to move.
“What happens if I say no?” she asked.
He didn’t answer the question; his smile did. “It’s standard,” he repeated. “For your safety.”
He hadn’t looked her in the eyes when he pressed the needle in.
A lie wrapped around his lips but hidden beneath a clinical mask.
Afterward, for weeks, she dreamed in static. They said there would be side effects and not to worry… but when she’d sleep…she’d always wake with the sense of being watched. There was a constant buzz under her skin. At first she thought it was anxiety, then she felt the pulse – faint and not hers.
Her mother noticed things. Estás pálida, mija. Have you eaten? Have you prayed? Her mother rubbed oil on her temples and told her not to pull her hair back so tight. It made her look “tensa,” too severe. Eliza listened and didn’t say anything about the humming under her skin.
Then the announcements began. Radios – banned. Certain roads in certain neighborhoods closed “for safety”. Curfews imposed. Checkpoints erected. And rumors, what turned into truths, about the hunters. The people who went missing were described as “relocated.”
A month later, her mom didn’t return from the grocery store. She went out looking for her on foot and neighbors yelled from behind closed doors and windows to go home. As quickly as possible. She couldn’t leave her mother. She needed to find her.
She left that night. She grabbed what she could carry and ran into the woods. Where she knew they couldn’t find her.
Now weeks had past and she was taken away from her memory and back into her boots. The forest was quiet. Too quiet. Even the squirrels had vanished.
The breeze carried something else. Not her mother’s voice, not memory…but something low. Mechanical. A sound that didn’t belong to the woods.
She crouched, pressing her palm into the damp soil. The sound grew louder. A faint red light flickered between the trees ahead. Steady, pulsing. Like a heartbeat.
Her heartbeat.
Eliza froze. Warmth spread beneath her sleeve. The scar on her arm darkened, sticky and wet. The light flickered faster.
She took a step back, breath catching in her throat. Then another.
Behind her, a twig snapped.
“Eliza.”
Her name. Clear. Human. Close.
She turned. Nothing but trees.
“Eliza,” the voice said again….only this time, it came from inside her head.
Her vision blurred. Colors pulsed. She stumbled forward, gripping her temples. Beneath her palms, she could feel something moving.
When she looked down, she saw it. Under the skin of her arm, just below the cut. A small red light blinking back to life.
The hum deepened, tilting the air. Then another light to her left. A third behind her. Red beads blooming in the underbrush.
She tightened the strap of her pack and forced herself to breathe. She needed to think. If the chip was dead, removed from her body, then what was blinking? She remembered the doctor’s hands…and the nurse peeling back a small square of adhesive she hadn’t thought much about. A “topical,” they’d said. She’d felt only the sting of the injection, not the press of something else against her skin.
She dug her fingers into the fresh scab. Blood slick on her fingers. Beneath the mess of what the skin had knitted in a broken pattern, blood. Embedded inside that uneven seam, the red blinked steady. Not in the place she’d cut, but beside it, nestled under a ridge of tissue. Smaller than a pea, but burning like an fire. Her stomach turned.
“Eliza,” the voice said again, almost gentle now. “Stop.”
She didn’t. She ran.
Branches whipped her face. Needles bit her ankles. The forest sloped, fell away, rose again. She aimed for the sound of water, convinced that somehow a stream might confuse the signal, might drown it. The red lights moved with her. Twice she tripped and went to her knees, palms grinding into grit. Twice she got up.
She burst into a clearing. A narrow creek sliced the earth in two, water chuckling over stone. She waded in, gasping as the cold seized her calves. “Come on,” she hissed at herself. “Come on.” She plunged her arm into the current and held it there. The red light bled into the water as a soft, pulsing smear.
The voice, closer: “Eliza. Do not damage the device.”
“Go to hell,” she said, but her mouth felt numb around the words.
She kept her arm under until her skin burned with cold and the pulse in her wrist turned numb. When she pulled it free, the light still blinked. Slower, then strong again. As if it had taken a breath with her.
She thought of her mother’s voice: Your name and your body are your only true belongings. She looked at her arm and felt, really felt, that neither belonged to her anymore.
Footsteps entered the clearing. Not one set. Many.
Eliza backed deeper into the creek, water tugging at her knees. She scanned the tree line and saw them. Figures in matte gray, faces mirrored, shoulders broad. Hunters, or the shape of them. The red lights on their chests flickered in time with the one beneath her skin, like a shared pulse. A drone nosed into view above their shoulders. No bigger than a hawk, rotors whispering. Its belly glowed red.
“Eliza de la Cruz,” the a figure said. Not a question.
She thought of her mother writing their last name carefully on forms. She thought of the G-variant. She thought of the chip that quit blinking and her own stupid faith that that had been enough.
“This is a retrieval,” the voice replied. It came from the figure, and from the drone, and inside her head, all at once. “For your safety.”
She felt something tug in her arm then, a tiny cramp, like a muscle knitting. The light brightened. A warmth crawled outward from it, slow, almost soothing. Her fingers went slack. The pack slid from her shoulder and splashed into the creek.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
The warmth deepened. For a strange second she wanted to sleep. Her knees felt heavy.
Then another voice cut across the clearing, low and hard as stone. Not the hunters. Not the drone. It came from the trees behind them.
“Move,” it said.
The gray figures pivoted in a single, fluid motion. The drone rose, angling toward the new voice. Eliza blinked, swayed, felt the warmth in her arm falter, then surge. The red lights beat faster, blurring into a single, furious glow.
A branch snapped. A shape detached from the shadows. Someone else was here. Carrying something that flashed darkly in their hands. For one wild second, Eliza thought of her mother’s rosary, the way the beads looked in low light.
The drone screamed. The figures advanced.
The light beneath Eliza’s skin flared so bright she saw the bones of her hand lit from within.
And in that electric white, she understood. The thing in her arm wasn’t just a tracker. It was a door. It had been waiting for a signal. It had been waiting for them.
The creek rushed louder, rushing nowhere.
“Eliza,” the inside-voice said one last time, almost tender. “Welcome back.”
The world narrowed to red, to the thud of boots, to a heat blooming in her blood like a second sun.
She did not know who the new voice belonged to. She did not know if the hunters were people anymore or if they had ever been. She only knew the device had decided to open.
She saw the first gray figure step into the water toward her. She saw the drone tilt, a dark pupil dilating.
She opened her mouth to scream.
The light stopped.
If China is not spacious, why are cities built to rot without occupants?
Don’t let that fake news go to your head.
China is big and populous, so much so that during the boom of the 2000s and 2010s, it was common practice for city governments to build up entire cities or districts from scratch, raising the money selling future housings, before finishing the job and have people move in.
The two most famous projects in the West were Ordos in Inner Mongolia, which started the story about “ghost cities”, when a mal-intentioned “journalist” explored the new city district of Ordos still in construction, and called it a “ghost city”. The new district was filled up just a couple of years later. The other example is Xiong’an, Hebei, just south of Beijing. Xi Jinping himself announced it as a project of the “millenium” in 2017, and China started building up this entire new city out of nowhere, as an experimental showcase for future Chinese cities to follow. It’s only starting to get companies in Beijing moved there and its housing inhabited now, in 2025.
While the stories about “ghost cities” and empty streets started as fake news, taking advantage of the difference in construction scale and method between China and the West, they started to make more sense after 2018, but for completely wrong reasons.
In 2018 Trump launched his trade war on China, trying to stop China’s economic and tech rise. The CCP leadership made the decision to stop the housing boom in China and shift resources to counter the American threat, by boosting domestic innovation. This sudden change of direction killed the bank loans for many housing projects and killed many developments in the middle of construction, and is the real reason why there are many empty and half-finished houses in China today, as well as being the reason behind the rise of Chinese EV and other tech dominance.
Spicy Cabbage
Yield: 8 servings
Ingredients
- 2 tablespoons vegetable oil
- 1 medium onion, chopped
- 2 cloves garlic, minced
- 2 jalapeño peppers, seeded and chopped
- 1 medium green or red bell pepper, chopped
- 1/2 teaspoon ground cumin
- 1/2 teaspoon ground coriander
- 1/2 teaspoon ground turmeric
- 1/2 teaspoon salt
- 2 medium tomatoes, coarsely chopped
- 1 small head green cabbage, thinly sliced
- 1 tablespoon vinegar
Instructions
- Heat oil in 12 inch skillet until hot. Cook and stir onion, garlic, jalapeño peppers, green pepper, cumin, coriander, turmeric and salt over medium heat until onion is tender, about 5 minutes.
- Stir in tomatoes and cabbage. Heat to boiling; reduce heat. Cover and simmer until cabbage is tender, about 12 minutes.
- Stir in vinegar.
What happened in the late medieval warfare when a pike wall met another pike wall?
One of three things would happen.
- Complete chaos and a massive slaughter. It’s not pretty when that many points meet each other. Pikes were supposed to fend off cavalry, that’s what they were good at protecting against. Pikes are very weak against other pikes so two big formations of point stick dudes going at each other would not end well if neither side backed down.
- One side flinches and backs off. A fairly common practice if one side sees that the other seems more disciplined, better armored or are just outnumbering them. You don’t really heartily advance towards a wall of death if you can avoid it. It’s when neither side has a clear advantage and neither side backs down that everyone tends to die. In more clear cut situations the disadvantaged side will pull back.
- The most hillarious outcome and one that often happened with Italian Condottiere or reportedly in the beginning of the English civil war (according to Mike Duncans Revolutions at least). Neither side wants to get into it and since the battlefield commanders are further back on a horse they can’t clearly what’s going on. So the soldiers decide to do the sensible thing and poke at each other from just out of reach and basically faux-fights instead. Waiting for the musketeers, cavalry and artillery to actually decide the battle instead. No need to get good men killed just because some upper class twit decided to run a wall of spikes at another wall of spikes.
Pike vs Pike is fairly rare in late medieval warfare as well as in the later and appropriately named Pike and Shot era.
Warfare this period is more of a rock paper scissors kind of game, you don’t send pikement to fight pikemen, you use artillery or musketmen or possibly a caracole of pistoleers.
The Adventures Of Tintin – Prisoners Of the Sun (Part 2)
The Adventures Of Tintin – Prisoners Of the Sun (Part 2) (1992) RetroBob