This is a heads up. Please watch it. Take the time.
Today, I want to talk about apples.
I grew up in Pennsylvania with apple trees everywhere. And as a boy, it was common to go on hikes and walks and help ourselves to the local apples growing on the trees. I grew up in a land of apple pies, apple sauce, apple cider, and apple butter.
Oh, it was a grand time.
And today I want to promote that Pennsylvania experience.
Today…
Do most people in China use a chop instead of a signature for official documents, and why is it still preferred by some?
A very interesting question.
For over 2,000 years, most contracts have been referred to as “making a mark.”
This was done using fingerprints, particularly the right thumbprint.
The Chinese believed that everyone’s fingerprints were unique, though there was no rigorous proof…
Another method was using seals.
This was initially a highly solemn practice, primarily used for military deployments.
The difficulty of forgery was extremely high.
Lastly, there is handwriting—something all humans can understand.
Nowadays, in China, it seems this is the only method used for identification evidence.
I have to say, its reliability is surprisingly strong.
I know a bit about calligraphy.
Whether it’s a bank asking me to sign on a mobile device or something else, I often intentionally write in a calligraphic style 😛
What’s truly astonishing is that they can still recognize it despite the variations in calligraphic strokes: “Stop fooling around, just sign and agree already.”
It’s absolutely amazing!
How do employees typically react to bizarre or impractical cost-saving measures from management, and what are some examples you’ve witnessed?
American style capitalism in it's disgusting glory. -MM
- I had one employer that posted the following. “We will no longer provide bathroom tissue in the rest rooms or napkins or paper towels in the breakrooms. You are required to bring in your own for personal use.” That company had a $63bil profit year after year.
- Another company we did lots of work travel. No more flying home on the weekends. For example. Staying in the hotel Friday, Saturday, Sunday was $300.00. Per diem was $60 a day for another $180. So $480 if we stayed. $500 if we traveled home. That was the most common example. Employees were missing weddings, high school graduations, anniversaries, holidays, because of that. Killing an entire weekend and disrupting families to save $20. We offered to reimburse the company for the difference when there was one. They said no. That company had a $150 bil budget.
Ironically, with both of those companies, the pay was really good. Far above industry standard. The health insurance was great. Our equipment, tools, buildings were immaculate. Then they nickled and dimed us on nonsense. Here’s the worse one.
3. Employee parking. Right out of the blue the company put forth the following.
‘You are required to park correctly. In the spot. Facing in. With the company placard displayed prominently. Any violation will result in a fine or vehicle being towed.”
Right away they had someone go out in the parking lot everyday with a ticket book. A digital camera too. $50 for parking facing out. $50 for no placard. $50 for tire touching the line. We just ignored it. The had no police or enforcement powers. Some days it snowed and you couldnt see the lines. Some days people took their spouses cars to work with no placard. Come the next payday HR had deducted those tickets amounts from the employee paychecks. That one went to court and the judge ordered it stopped. Employees reimbursed. You can write up or otherwise discipline employees for bad parking but fining them is a no no. Surprise. The towing company was the general managers brother. The company we were working for was a multi billion dollar company too.
It gives me the idea that those high level managers are sitting in the office going stir crazy. Then they come up with stuff like this. We were working on equipment that cost hundreds of millions of dollars. Then they start worrying about paper towels, toilet paper, parking. Really makes you wonder.
Smart little girl
Does Russia’s success in Ukraine prove that Russians are more powerful than Americans?
No, it just proves they’re closer to Ukraine. Much closer. (Something you may not have noticed: America is in the OTHER hemisphere.)
Ah, but they DID effectively join NATO. There’s yer problem right there.
“Remember it was Ursula von der Leyen that bragged that the Ukraine army is the ‘1st European army.’ What did she mean by that? She said ‘We have to use it wisely.’ So people who don’t normally tell the truth, end up telling the truth. And I think von der Leyen was telling the truth. Ukraine is Europe’s first European army. It doesn’t mean they’re gonna win, doesn’t mean it’s good, it just means that it’s NOT a Ukrainian army. At least we have had the president of the EU Commission acknowledging that.” ~ Major Scott Ritter, Supervising UN Weapons Inspector
Savory Middle Eastern Eggplant Stew
If you favor the flavors of the Middle East, you’ll enjoy this recipe. It’s filled with exotic spices and tastes. If you prefer, you can substitute squash for the eggplant. Note that limou-omani (dried Persian limes) and goureh (sour grapes) are available at many Middle Eastern food stores.
Ingredients
- 1 pound stewing meat (lamb, veal, or beef) cut into 1-inch cubes with 1/2 pound marrow bone or 3-pound frying chicken, cut up
- 2 onions, finely sliced
- 1 clove garlic, crushed
- 1/2 cup oil
- 1/4 teaspoon nutmeg
- 1 teaspoon cinnamon
- 1/4 teaspoon turmeric
- 1 teaspoon salt
- 1/4 teaspoon freshly-ground black pepper
- 2 medium eggplants, peeled and quartered lengthwise
- 2 tablespoons tomato paste
- 2 tablespoons powdered or 2 whole limou-omani or 1/4 cup goureh or juice of 2 lemons
- 1 large tomato, peeled and sliced
Instructions
- In a Dutch oven, brown meat and bone, or chicken, with onions and garlic in 3 tablespoons oil. Add nutmeg, cinnamon, turmeric, salt and pepper.
- Pour in 3 cups water with meat or 2 cups water with chicken; bring to a boil and cover. Reduce heat and simmer 1 hour for meat or 45 minutes for chicken.
- Sprinkle both sides of eggplant pieces with salt; let stand 20 minutes. Rinse and pat dry. Sauté in a skillet in 1 tablespoon oil; set aside.
- Add tomato paste and limou-omani, goureh, or lemon juice to the meat or chicken; mix well and taste. Adjust seasoning if necessary.
- Heat oven to 350 degrees F.
- Pour meat or chicken and sauce into a deep ovenproof casserole; arrange eggplant and tomato slices on top. Cover and bake 45 minutes.
- Either serve immediately from the same dish or keep warm in oven until ready to serve.
- Serve hot with rice.
Serves 6 to 8.
What’s a moment where you had to prove yourself unexpectedly, and what was the outcome?
One moment I was sitting in my office solving some stupid problem when the Big Boss came in and told me I had to do a training preso to 20 or so new salespeople in the conference room. I had ten minutes to prepare. The training was to be 90 minutes. I want to point out that I was not a trainer.
So I squared up my tie, put on my jacket and walked down to the training room. I had no notes or materials. I had no idea what I was going to say. There were twenty or so bored and angry salespeople sitting around truculently. Sales people HATE training. They want to be on the phone or out selling. I could tell it was going to be challenge to win them over. The topics were rather technical.
So I went up to the white board and introduced myself. I could see them glowering. And then I drew a big sine wave on the white board and said, “To understand the training today we have to examine the hertz level of the average phone line….”
I could see the horror in their eyes.
And then I took the eraser and wiped it away.
“Fuck that shit,” I said, “You don’t need to know that shit to sell anything. Here’s what you will need to know. And forget the purist assholes who say, “that ain’t right”. What I’m telling you is right enough. That’s what you need to know.”
Suddenly I had their attention.
At the end of 90 minutes, I got a standing ovation. It stands out in my mind as a seminal moment in my life. Who gets a standing O for teaching telecom?
A week later while I was picking my nose in the office or some such thing, the President of the company came into my office with a sheaf of papers.
“What did you do?” he whispered. “Pay them off?”
And he dropped the papers on my desk and walked out. They were evaluations from the training. They said things like, “Never knew I could learn so much in 90 minutes.” and “Why isn’t this guy in the field?” and “I want him on my sales calls” and things of that nature. It remains one of my greatest professional memories.
Why I am not married
What are the most important factors to consider when assessing the Swiss economy’s ability to handle the 39% U.S. tariffs on Swiss imports?
Norwegian here.
Another question based on the entirely false premise that it is vital for a country’s economuc survival to trade with the USA.
That is simply not true.
Yes, Swiss businesses are now at a disadvanrage compared to businesses in countries who “enjoy” lower US tariff rates than the Swiss.
But the Swiss can handle it.
The effects on the Swiss economy are hardly existential. Lombard Odier, one if the oldest and most respected Swiss Private Banks have downgraded their estimate of Swiss GDP GROWTH from +1.1% to +0.9% this year due to the 39% tariffs. Hardly life-shattering…
US GDP is expected to CONTRACT this year.
Other factors to consider are;
- The Swiss atill produce goods and services the USA needs, including Pharmaceuticals. Precision Machinery and certain Minerals. These will be more expensive in the USA. But they will still be needed.
- The US market, while certainly an affluent one, it still only 4.25% of the world’s population. Swiss budinesses will be happy to sell their high quality goods and their famous Financial services to the remaining 95.75% of the world’s population.
- Central to that is the excellent trade relationship they enjoy with the EU. The cornerstone of this relationship is the 1972 Free Trade Agreement, which has been supplemented by other bilateral trade agreements over the years.
Allow me a short personal note; I used to roll over a small amount of US 92day T-BILLS just for fun. No more. I am now using my dollars to buy Swiss Gold.
The USD is tanking, the XAU is booming.
One final Note; of all the peoples in the world, I believe the Swiss are the least likely to run around like headless chicken, screaming “ the sky is falling, the sky is fslling!” because of the US tariffs…
Sand Walkers
Written in response to: “Start or end your story with a character looking out at a river, ocean, or the sea.“
Peter Brickwood
This story contains themes or mentions of suicide or self harm.
Sand Walkers
An Earth to Nancy Story
By
Peter Brickwood
The Jessie touched Ursula’s elbow. “That’s as close as you should get to the sand.”
The tall woman’s lightly creased face looked down on the Jessie, “Really, how can I be in any danger here?”
“If I am to save you from death, you have to trust that I know the risks.” Sighing, the Jessie added, “We don’t want to incinerate you, too.” Her fingers flicked behind her back, commanding the members of the protective detail to move ahead and to the sides of the pair as they stood on the long rock slope leading to the endless expanse of sand.
“But I’m ten yards up bare rock.”
“Yes.” The Jessie nodded. “But you cannot tell a windborne worm from an ordinary grain of sand.”
“Pssah.” Ursula made a dismissive sound. “These blood worms of yours cannot be as small as tiny granules.”
“They can.” The Jessie shook her head. “Specks so small you hardly feel them against your skin. Within a minute, the body is infested with worms reproducing as fast as they can suck blood, growing and dividing until your body explodes and splatters over all of us. In self-preservation, we would have to kill you, just like your assistant, and destroy your corpse with flame throwers before the blood worms could escape and attack.”
The woman’s features became harsh as she admitted, “I suppose I don’t want to see that again, much less experience it.”
“The human race has found us after a thousand years, and they don’t care. You’re the only person in the whole galaxy that’s interested in us. And that’s only so you can study us for your anthropology thing.”
Ursula stared out at the valley between two rocky promontories covered in gnarled trees. “Does the sand really spread out like an ocean?” She pulled a high-tech viewer from her bag and pointed it at the distant horizon. “All I see is sand.”
The Jessie looked over her shoulder toward a woman of medium height with tightly bound blonde hair and the chaffed reddened skin that came with long exposure to the relentless sun. “Swot?”
The blonde woman’s brows furrowed, “Jessie, I’m not a Swot and don’t study all those books about astral navigation and other useless stuff. I just like reading the stories.”
“You’re the closest thing I have to a Swot, so do any of those ‘stories’ tell you about oceans?”
Swot thought for a few moments before answering. “The water surface on World One covered half of the planet. A person could stand on the edge of the land—they called it ‘beach.’” She laughed. “It was made of sand. When they looked away from the shore, they saw nothing but water in the same way we see nothing but sand when we look out from a point.”
“We can go out to the points.” Exclaimed Ursula, “I want to do that.”
Jessie’s mouth tightened, “Guarding you is like minding a curious toddler.” Her mouth twisted as she thought, “All right, we can go out the old crash point path. We’ll only need a demi-dec.”
Swot reached for a bag on her belt. A squat thickset man held out a hand to stop her. He glanced around; two tall men and a short woman all nodded. He said, “We’ll take her. You mediums go and enjoy an afternoon off. Soon enough, you’ll be making babies and have no time for yourself.”
Sadness clouded Swot’s eyes as she acknowledged his gift. “Thanks, Dem.”
The four guards formed up in a diamond around Ursula and Jessie. The group set off at a pace that matched Ursula’s brisk walk. Chattering excitedly, she asked, “Why do you call it a dec? I’ve heard of squads, ranks, files, crews, sticks but never decs. Stick is an interesting one, we can learn so much…”
The Jessie waited until Ursula paused for breath. “Dec is a group of ten people. Almost all our work is done in groups of ten. I think it started with work crews on our spaceship.”
“Ah,” Ursula’s eyes got a faraway look. “Like demi-tasse means half a cup in ancient French, so ‘demi-dec’ means half a ten-person crew. I must make notes.” She fumbled in her bag for a small device and began talking to it. Presently she asked, “Swot, Dem, Jessie. I thought you didn’t use names.”
“Don’t,” replied Jessie with a tinge of annoyance. “Some of us love to study and understand all kinds of stuff. We call them ‘Swot.’ A long tradition, I don’t know why. ‘Dem’ comes from demi and means he is the half-commander, who takes over when I get killed. They’re not names, they’re job titles.”
“‘Jessie’ doesn’t sound like a title.”
“They’re teasing me. Our cohort has finished its five years of blood patrols which means we are young adults. I was elected to represent our cohort on the Governing Council. For some reason that nobody knows, the job is called ‘The Jessie.’”
Ursula talked to her machine again. After a minute she asked, “What did Dem mean, they’d be ‘making babies’ soon? Won’t you all be—” She bit her lip. “Oh, sorry.”
“S’all right,” said Jessie with a shrug, “We’ve all know for years we’d be ’cards.”
Dem turned onto a metal path leading under the trees of a forested point of land that ran out into the sand sea. The woman guard moved up beside him and the two men fell back behind them—so they formed a box.
“Biggest danger here is that a snake will drop out of a tree onto you. If you can get out of its way so it drops to the metal deck, we can kill and burn it. But if it gets its teeth into you, we’ll have to burn you.” Jessie looked up at the tall woman beside her.
Ursula hunched herself over a bit and kept walking. She asked, “What did you mean ‘’cards’?”
Jessie laughed. “Short for ‘discards.’ By the time we’ve been doing Blood Worm Patrols for a year, we almost always stop growing. Like me and those two.” She tipped her chin toward the two guards in front of her and Ursula. “Women my size are known as ‘pitifully petit.’ That pair,” she jerked her head toward the two behind her. Ursula looked up at them. Jessie smiled. “They’re nicknamed ‘too talls.’”
“Didn’t your ship have a bank of egg and sperm cells?”
“Oh, yes. Apparently the medical technology of reproduction was fairly advanced when GenTwo, our ship, left World One, uh,—”
“Earth,” supplied Ursula.
“The GenNeers were hmm, medical personnel responsible for maintaining the population on GenTwo. As best we can tell, they did a great job. The problem happened after we crashed, and the cryogenic storage banks lost power. The baby cells all melted into mush.”
Ursula’s head jerked and she blinked then, hesitantly, asked, “Ah, but why, um, ‘discard’ only the tall and short people?”
“Our bad luck.” Straining to keep her voice measured and reasonable, Jessie replied, “Somewhere back in the first century on Nancy, the settlers realized that if we run at a steady pace, the worms ignore us. If we break stride or run in a ragged pattern, they home in on the vibrations and usually kill the whole patrol before swarming and racing up the sand valley. Our job is to use our radios to warn agricultural workers so they can get off the sand and onto metal platforms or the rock shore where the blood worms can’t get at them.”
“But what does that have to do with being tall or short?”
“Tall and short people lope—run, with an ever so-slightly different rhythm that attracts the worms.” In an obvious attempt to change the topic, Jessie asked, “Do you know what kind of trees these are?” She waved at the twisted trunks and branches with long tubular leaves.
“No. All planets have indigenous life forms that have never been seen before…” Ursula’s voice trailed off.
“One of the landers christened them ‘Christmas Trees.’ Do you know what that means?”
“What?” Ursula would have stopped but Jessie pushed her elbow to keep her moving. “Were your settlers Christians?”
“What’s that?”
“Followers of a religion from earth with a holy day called ‘Weihnachten.’ That means ‘Christmas.’ The holiday was celebrated by bringing small triangular trees into their houses.”
“I don’t think there were any uh, ‘Christians’ among the landers.” Jessie shook her head. “But the young trees are triangular. As they get older and taller, they become more contorted.”
Ahead of them, Dem burst through the trees into brilliant sunlight falling on a large outcrop formed by rock that had been burnt bare.
Ursula’s eyes widened as she turned to look at unbroken sand for as far as she could see. A fine beige dust was moving away from the land in a light breeze. The surface of the sand sea glistened with small ripples that seemed to flow in the light. “It really is like an ocean.”
Jessie waited quietly while Ursula gazed out at the bright blue sky beyond the far-off horizon. Ursula began to sit down on the rock, but Jessie took her elbow again. “Please don’t. There can be tiny snakes hidden by cracks in the rock.”
“Ahh,” a strangled sound came from the female guard closest to the sand’s edge. Three of the guards went into half crouches and reached for handheld flame throwers tucked into their waists or slung at their hips. The tall who was carrying a backpack burner lifted the nozzle to check its pilot flame was lit.
The talls carefully examined the trees while Dem and Jessie scrutinized the rocky ground and blowing sand. Seeing nothing, Jessie called to the guard. “What is it?” The woman choked on her answer and could only wave an arm in the direction of the next point.
On the far point, a man was stacking rocks around a metal pole.
Ursula pulled out her viewer and trained it on the man. “He seems to have fixed that metal pole so it will stand by itself.” She offered Jessie the viewer. “Do you want to take a closer look?”
Heavily, Jessie answered, “No, thank you.” Addressing the female guard, she asked, “Is it Gingie?” The guard pressed her lips tight, nodded, and wiped a tear from her cheek.
“He’s sitting down now,” Ursula said. “Seems to be taking off his boots. Isn’t that dangerous?”
“Boots are very valuable,” Jessie explained. “It’s easy enough to replace pants and shirts but it’s difficult to make good boots. We use hard plastic for the soles and horsehide for the uppers which all has to be glued and sewed tight so there’s no miniscule gaps to let in worms.”
Ursula frowned, “He seems to be hanging the boots upside down on the pole.”
“So, snakes won’t get in and surprise someone.” Jessie looked at the guard. “Was he expecting bad news?”
The female guard gulped. “He was hoping everything would be OK but because of his red hair, and you remember when he was very little, he got angry a couple of times; he was afraid the GenNeers would tell him he had the ‘mad’ gene.”
Ursula clicked her electronic viewfinder a couple of times. She frowned. “Must be something wrong with this thing, says he’s medium height.”
“He is.” Jessie sighed again. “The GenNeers must have told him he’s being discarded.”
Ursula’s hands dropped as she gaped at Jessie. “Because he has red hair?”
Jessie huffed, a small sour smile twisting her mouth, “Back in the beginning during the first century or so of settlement here on Nancy, there was a huge fight. The GenNeers said we would kill ourselves off. Uh…”
“Become extinct?”
“Yeah, that’s the word. They said there were too many sick, weak and uh, people who couldn’t think very well. I only know the rude word for it.”
“Mentally challenged?”
“Boy, you social anthropologists know everything. Anyway, the GenNeers said that because the frozen babies had all melted, they would have to decide who could have babies so that we would remain—” Ursula started to speak but Jessie held up a hand. “I remember this one, a ‘genetically viable population.’ Like I said, it was a huge fight. There was a red-haired guy, I think his name was ‘Gingie,’ who wanted to marry and have babies with a woman who was called ‘developmentally challenged.’ The Governing Council decided they could have a baby, which of course they did. But worms got the child. The woman—Faith was her name—couldn’t stand the grief and she went out on the sand, barefoot, so the worms would kill her.”
“He’s doing that?” asked Ursula. She raised her viewer again. “He’s shuffling his feet as he walks on the sand.”
The group kept watching their surroundings for worms and snakes, occasionally glancing toward the red-headed man trudging into the beige ocean.
Dem made a slight sound so that he could catch Jessie’s eye. She shook her head slightly. Dem frowned, tilting his head up toward Ursula. Jessie shook her head and rocked her chin toward the female guard watching Gingie disappear over the sand. Dem grimaced but went back to surveying the sand around them.
Daylight was beginning to darken when the group heard a faint whump and a small cloud of sand blossomed far out on the horizon. The female guard let out an audible sigh. Then the other members of the demi-dec began moving along the path toward the settlement.
Ursula’s expression was grave. “Do people often suicide?”
“Not many of us die of old age.” There was grim humor in Jessie’s voice. “We discards will keep doing Blood Worm Patrols and other dangerous work. We won’t live long. The mediums will be protected, given the least dangerous jobs for as long as they can have babies. That’s how our settlement survives.”
As the demi-dec came out of the trees, the rest of the dec joined and fell into the usual diamond square formation. Swot trotted along not far from Jessie. Quietly, she asked, “What happened?”
“Gingie became a sand walker.”
The End
What is the greatest blunder in military history that took the longest to correct?
If you ask Joseph Stalin, every commander stationed on the western front in 1941 should be shot on sight for military incompetence.
Yes, Military Incompetence.
Which is exactly what he did.
At the opening stage of Operation Barbarossa, Hitler launched an offensive, mechanized campaign never before seen in history, thrusting 750,000 men and 2,000 tanks 460 km into the Soviet Union over 18 days.
Dumfounded, the Red Army’s Western front collapsed like a house of cards.
Four soviet armies were encircled, 5,000 soviet tanks were destroyed, 10,000 mortars and anti-tank guns obliterated, along with 1,700 soviet planes in flames.
I mean, the losses were enormous.
Stalin was infuriated, he had no idea why Hitler’s forces were able to advance virtually unimpeded.
So, who do you blame?
The commanders, obviously.
Dmitry Pavlov, General, Commander of the Western Front.
All in all, Stalin blamed Pavlov and his general staff, the western front staff, for its failure in repelling German forces, with the defensive advantage.
After the staggering losses were tallied up, Stalin ordered every commander to report to Moscow immediately.
After their arrival, and a few handshakes, the commanders walked on over to Stalin’s office expecting a harsh dress-down.
Stalin lashed out, expletives were shouted, miscellaneous insults flowed, and another order was issued.
An order for execution.
The commanders were charged with military incompetence, intentional and malicious command and summarily executed.
Stalin shipped out fresh commanders to reorganize a non-existent command structure in the west, while Hitler likely enjoyed a morphine syringe, reveling over an incredible victory.
How long did it take to correct?
Well, Hitler pushed all the way to Moscow over the next year.
So I’d say it took at least that long to reorganize and repel German forces out of the Soviet Union.
It all came down to their initial defense, or lack thereof.
So that, is an absolute military disaster.
Fun fact: Germany only lost 100 tanks and 10,000 men in the first 18 days, while 300,000+ Soviets were captured. We went over the rest of the numbers above!
Another Fun fact: The first engagements and skirmishes of operation Barbarossa all fall under one battle, unequivocally known as the Battle of Białystok–Minsk, this battle represents the first 18 days of the invasion, and all loss and casualty statistics on this answer are directly attributed. Link included for those who’d like to know more!
Pictures
To force other countries to change their stance, the US has resorted to open sanctions and threats, even directly intimidating representatives. Is this the behavior of a major power? Doesn’t the US feel ashamed?
Shame is forecasted to be the loser who gives up and surrenders, as of now that’s not happening the battle continues and there are lots of historical examples comparable to what we are experiencing in this international conflict between indulgence and measured appreciations, how about early 16th. Century England when King Henry the 8th. lived to be only 56 years old because he couldn’t overcome fits of ingratiation that expressed itself as gluttony forcefully copied by the upper classes who ate mostly meat while the poorer classes ate mostly vegetables, today is different a large proportion of US citizens are overweight so the example I chose could have a better ending even though Trump and King Henry are very similar.
I would say about 30% of the US population are aware that something is wrong while another 20% believe that the US is motivated by a practical duty to keep the world on its present course, Trump could jump in either direction until he commits his Presidency to a full blown war rather than just sanctions and threats, for the benefit of mankind Trump should take a hands off approach with overseas political outcomes, religions and ideologies becoming whatever they become without interference, although I do accept that such a policy has never been the behaviour of a major power, China would come the closest if China could be considered to be a great power from 1950 to around the 1922 when it broke with tagging along supporting the NATO countries policies for China’s economic benefit, that 72 years are able to be interpreted in different ways.
The past few years are a demonstrating a political reality that has never existed before, it’s a genuine North South divide probably going to become permanent, although Canada recently seem to be pulling in a different direction so there is a great uncertainty until Trump makes his move.
Sir Whiskerton and the Bushel of Bashfulness
Ah, dear reader, prepare yourself for a tale not of grand mysteries or magical mishaps, but of a far more delicate and human puzzle: the quiet ache of a shy heart. Today’s story is one of unspoken affection, fruit-based frustrations, and a feline detective who knew that some cases required not a magnifying glass, but a gentle nudge. So, settle in with a cup of tea, as we dive into Sir Whiskerton and the Bushel of Bashfulness.
The Weekly Ritual of Retreat
Every Tuesday, the shy farmer would perform a ritual as predictable as the sunrise. He would take his wicker basket and walk to the far end of his land, where the old, gnarly apple trees grew. He’d carefully select the finest, reddest apples, polishing each one on his sleeve until it shone. He would fill a bushel to the brim, a beautiful, fragrant offering of autumn’s best.
His destination was always the same: the cozy cottage of Martha, who lived just down the lane. And his outcome was always the same: failure.
He would walk right up to her white picket fence, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He’d see her through the window, perhaps humming as she kneaded dough or watered her window boxes. And then, his courage would vanish like a mouse in a hawk’s shadow.
“She’s probably busy,” he’d mutter to himself, his shoulders slumping. “She doesn’t need my apples. It’s a silly gesture.”
And with a sigh, he would turn around, march back home, and deposit the beautiful bushel on his own kitchen table, a monument to his own timidity.
The farm animals watched this weekly tragedy unfold with growing frustration.
“He’s done it again!” Doris the Hen would cluck, peering from the coop. “All that potential for a lovely conversation, wasted!”
“Wasted!” echoed Ditto, shaking his tiny head.
Even Bessie the Tie-Dye Cow was moved from her usual groovy calm. “It’s a real bummer, man. The vibes are all blocked. That farmer’s heart is a garden, and he’s refusing to let the sunshine in.”
Sir Whiskerton, observing from his perch on the porch railing, narrowed his emerald eyes. “This is not a matter of ‘if,’ but ‘how.’ The farmer possesses the will, but not the way. It is our duty, as his… associates… to provide the way.”
The Feline Plan for Proximity
Sir Whiskerton called a secret meeting in the barn. All the animals gathered, their faces earnest in the hay-scented gloom.
“We require a situation,” Sir Whiskerton explained, “where the act of giving the apples is not a grand, terrifying gesture, but the most logical and simple solution to a problem. We must engineer a coincidence.”
A plan was hatched, a symphony of animal cooperation.
The following Tuesday, the farmer once again filled his bushel and began his doomed march. This time, however, his path was subtly altered.
As he passed the barn, Rufus the Dog “accidentally” knocked over a bucket of rainwater right in his path, forcing the farmer to detour through the gate into the pasture.
No sooner had he entered the pasture than Mr. Wigglesworth the pig, with a well-timed, dramatic faint, lay down directly in the farmer’s way, blocking his retreat.
“Oh, the indignity! I am stuck!” Mr. Wigglesworth declared, though he made sure to position himself quite comfortably.
Flustered, the farmer turned, only to find his way forward blocked by Bessie the Cow, who was meditating with intense focus right in the middle of the lane.
“Like, deep inner peace, man,” she hummed, not moving an inch.
Trapped between a meditating cow, a dramatically stricken pig, and a puddle, the farmer did the only thing he could do: he kept walking forward, right up to Martha’s picket fence.
And there, waiting for him, was Martha herself, holding her gardening shears and wearing a kindly, knowing smile. She had been watching the entire animal-led production from her window with immense amusement.
The Gift and the Pie
The farmer, red-faced and holding the bushel of apples like a shield, found he had nowhere to run.
“Oh!” he stammered, his voice a faint croak. “I… I was just… the animals… these are for you.” He thrust the bushel forward, his eyes fixed firmly on his own boots.
Martha’s smile softened. She didn’t tease him or make a grand speech. She simply reached out and took the bushel, her fingers brushing his for a fleeting, electric moment.
“Why, thank you,” she said, her voice as warm as the afternoon sun. “My very favorite. I was just thinking my pantry was looking a little bare. You’ve perfect timing.”
The farmer dared to look up. He saw no pity in her eyes, only genuine pleasure. The world did not end. The earth did not swallow him whole. He had done it.
Later that evening, as the farmer sat on his porch watching the sky turn to watercolor, a new scent joined the aroma of hay and earth: the sweet, cinnamony, buttery scent of a freshly baked apple pie.
Martha walked up the path, holding the steaming pie, two plates, and two forks balanced perfectly.
“It seemed a shame to enjoy these all by myself,” she said, and sat beside him without another word.
They ate the pie as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the barnyard in gold and violet. No words were needed. The gentle clucking from the coop, the distant thump-thump of Rufus’s tail, and the contented purr emanating from a nearby sunbeam were the only conversation required.
Sir Whiskerton, curled on his railing, watched the two humans sitting in comfortable silence. The case was closed. The bushel had been delivered, a pie had been returned, and two shy smiles had finally found their way to each other.
All was, indeed, good in the world.
The End.
Can you tell me about the dumbest person with a college degree you have ever encountered?
Not necessarily “dumb”, but foolish:
ANTHONY DESGRO.
This is going to sound ridiculous—but it actually happened! That is why I’m including the actual names.
Desgro graduated from Patchogue High School in New York in 1967. (rhymes with catch dog.) (I graduated in 1968.)
Desgro was totally blind since birth. In his entire life he never saw anything.
He decided he wanted to take a course in biology. Harold Lieberman, the biology teacher, agreed. They made clay models of the various textbook illustrations. Desgro took the course and got a decent grade.
So far so good …
Desgro then decided he wanted to major in METEOROLOGY in college!
And some college was stupid enough to accept him for that because he was disabled!
They did the same thing as Lieberman—they made clay models of everything.
Desgro graduated with a degree in meteorology!
No—I am not making this up!
About a decade later, when I was in part-time law school at St. John’s University in Jamaica, New York, one of my classmates, John Bass, worked at a county Human Rights Commission.
One time I mentioned, “There was this idiot I went to high school with …”
Bass responded:
“I think I know that guy! About once every 3 years he comes in complaining that employers are discriminating against him—no one will hire him as a meteorologist!
Every time, we have to tell him it’s not a minor disability and it would not be considered discrimination.”
cpc-jtr
Say My Name
Written in response to: “Write a story from the POV of someone waiting to be rescued.“
Paul LaRue
This story contains themes or mentions of physical violence, gore, or abuse.
Their great great great great great great really not so great grandchildren might be able to remember; if they could read, that is. If they could be bothered to look. But they won’t look, which is why they cannot see. “They turned their face, from the castles in the distance” goes the old song. “Eyes cast down on the path of least resistance” it continues.
A lesser man might believe this is impossible. How could people so great have descendants so impossibly stupid and illiterate? But let’s recall the tale from Earth That Was, of those who ruled over a mighty empire and built the most amazing cities of that time. Built towering statues and colossal pyramids and a language built from birds and stars and swift, graceful dogs. Everyone not made from shit could read those words. Ten and twenty and even thirty centuries of wise and well read people! And yet, there came a day when there was only one man left who could read them. Just one; and then he died, and for ten centuries, those glyphs were mute.
The selfish and ridiculous people who live here have no need for graceful dogs. Their hunting companions are swift, but not graceful, and of course, this is not Earth, so they are not dogs. But they are living creatures nevertheless, quadrupeds with sharp teeth and strong limbs and masters without love. So when their “companions” grow stiff of limb or weary of sight, they make them play a game of “scratch, scratch”. They hang their beasts with wire just long enough that they won’t strangle, just as long as they frantically scurry their hind paws in the sharp sand below their feet.
That is how I found my first true friends, here on this desolate place where I was marooned so many years ago. For weeks, I had hidden by day and prowled by night. Were I a lesser man, my heart would have been so full of bitterness at being marooned here, I would not have had eyes to see. But I am not lesser, but greater; greater than those whose treachery has dumped me on this primitive backwater.
One fine evening, I crept up on a small group of natives, as they drunkenly played their game of “scratch scratch”. A dozen of them, tormenting five of their cast aside companions. Three were already dead, with two more frantically scratching.
Some men would fear such odds. Not I! A dozen? With my eyes shut, with half my brain tied behind my back? Some men bellow war cries… not I! “Speak, hands, for me!”; that is my creed. Four drunken throats were silenced in an instant; an iron rod for tormenting was snatched from the fourth, and dispatched the stupid empty skulls of another four.
GOD, how I have missed this!
The remaining four slouched up, primitive firearms in hands ruined with drink and cruelty. A gun? At this range? Against an actual man with a war club? Gone without firing a shot!
The last foe to fall had a sharp knife at his waist. I drew it, and released those poor, suffering creatures from their “scratch scratch” torment. They scampered off, howling.
A sharp narrow ravine nearby proved an excellent tomb for the fallen. A mere six trips later, and they were gone from view. On Earth That Was, honored dead were interred with tools and weapons, for thr glorious next life to come. This trash was not honorable, and where they were headed was not at all glorious. Also, I needed their tools and their weapons. I was alive, and I would stay that way.
I made my stealthy way to the long abandoned fortress made from the bones of the ancient dead. Along the way, the two quadrupeds I had saved circled back, with game still bleeding, held by teeth that were not so useless after all. They followed at a distance, ready to scamper away if I meant them harm. I offered none.
We all made camp inside the fortress ruin. I gathered wood, and made the fire which I had been lacking for so long. The two quads seemed overjoyed. Food! And cooked by flames. There was no worry about the smell of meat or smoke, or the visible crackle of fire to trouble me. Beasts with four legs would fear my two quads; beasts with two legs wouldn’t live long enough to fear me.
The next day, I climbed a longish spiral of stairs, to the pinnacle of the tallest tower still standing. A quick survey in all directions confirmed that this was an island, with thick dark woods and countless splashing streams. There were two smaller islands that I might swim to later on, no more than twenty or thirty miles across a treacherous, shimmering sea.
All around this brokedown palace were odd, massive slabs of what might be rock or fossil. These were instantly recognized as doors, meant to keep what’s outside away from the inside. It was the work of an afternoon carrying back all eight. All but two lacked hinges, and had to be roughly slammed into place.
Inside were hundreds of smaller stone slabs, lightly imprinted with a language of some sort, scattered over floors in every room. Gathering them took a morning; learning to read them took a day and a night. They sang ballads of knowledge and power, sagas of how much they had built, and how much more they had dreamed of doing. Someday.
How greatly I admired them! Even long dead, I felt a kinship. Nothing they wrote explained how it all came crashing down. There was also no reason given for why they had come so very close to exploring all the worlds beyond their own, but had inexplicably stopped trying. However, they did have some practical advice, which showed an astounding, almost magical connection between my quads and the fossil walls of my castle in exile.
Long ago, these magnificent people had spoke with their quads; spoken out loud in just the way you are reading these words set black over white. It was a more complete language than any that had ever been on Earth That Was, a speech made from sound and body posture and facial expression. The old ones from long ago had not been mere masters of their quads; they were brothers, brothers with a fierce and wild devotion to each other.
When I first spoke with my quads, they went wild with joy! For many long and lonely centuries, they spoken among themselves of a wonderful time, long ago, when the people and the quads had lived as one. And how somehow, the people had turned cruel and stupid. And now, there appeared a man who was not people, but was more like the old ones than the selfish hateful people who were their “heirs”
“Bright One,” this is how they referred to me, “Bright One, shall we speak with the long gone?”
“Yes,” came my reply. It felt right to agree, even though I had no idea what they meant.
The quads crouched together, front paws on opposite shoulders. They raised their blocky muzzles and sang. They sang an epic made from word and sound and notes. At that very instant, the fortress quivered, and the long dead walls released a tumbled chorus of whispers and shouts. They glowed, and the rooms brightened and gently warmed. They glowed, and the very air became sweet and fresh.
The earth moved.
The angels wept.
On Earth That Was, two centuries ago, I was Dominus. An overlord, with power over billions. Yet I was never more pleased than now. Every room of this mighty fortress delivered new and fantastic possibilities. There was a shop floor, with machines that thought and built; an armory, with weapons previously unimagined; a vast kitchen, with food that grew itself and ovens warmed by a fire of unknown origin. There was an even an observatory, with enormous eyes of metal and glass that saw far beyond the skies of this world.
This last saddened me. It was a reminder of how I was still in exile, in prison. However glorious my incarceration had become, I was still in jail. However much it might irk the smug, self righteous bigots who had marooned me here, to see how well I had done for myself, it was still a jail after all. My sentence was forever, without hope of parole.
My people had been defeated and dispersed before I was captured, so there was no hope of rescue. Even if that had been a possibility, it was rejected out of hand. I was their ruler, their ubermensch, their Khan. I should be stepping forth to rescue them! I should come bearing the gifts of this new and fantastic world which I had discovered, to lead them into a new and better age. No, if I am going to live and rule anywhere, it will be this wild ball of rock where I’ve been deposited.
So thinking, I went outside.
There were many, many of the inhabitants gathered close around. I was armed, of course; I haven’t been disarmed since I was a boy of eight. Still, one of me, and not less than several hundred of them: not the best odds. I was built from the DNA up to be superior in every way, but I was still unable to achieve flight. As it turned out, There was no cause for alarm.
Or for a translator. Not only could I talk to my quads, and they could talk to the walls, but it seemed that some new force made it possible for me to converse with the inhabitants of this place. I made this discovery when the large somewhat round fellow out front began making his demands.
It was not to be a long conversation.
“Those punters do not belong to you. I demand to know how you came to own them!” (Why they call them “punters” I still do not know.)
“You are in a position unsuited for making demands,” came my all too even reply. “These creatures followed me here of their own free will. We live here now.” And at this, I gestured to the fortress behind me.
“You also have no right to this castle. It is forbidden!”
“I have every right to be here. I own this place. I forbid you to bother me here. Prove me wrong.”
My words had the desired effect, as I knew they would. The large one was perplexed, then enraged. He then rushed at me with a club held high. He thought me easy prey of some sort. His last thought was quite wrong of course, and he perished from his own club shattering his windpipe, using a move I had been trained in since before I had hair on my arms.
Two of his companions attacked, one with a blade, one with a firearm. I shot them both before they could bellow. “Shoot the one out front,” my trainers had told me, “the rest will scatter.”
Only they didn’t scatter. Well, most of them did, but more than a few remained. Two of them – a brother and sister? Husband and wife? Lovers? – a young man and even younger woman approached.
“We never agreed with them. They never listened to us,” said the young man, referring to the dead bullies.
“We told them of strange people like you, who came from the sky, in a strange boat that gleams like a newly sharpened knife,” said the younger one, the woman. “ They were all afraid because there were a hand and a hand and another hand of them.”
“But only one of you,” continued the man. “We could not understand them as we can you, but we kept hearing the same word over and over. Like it was a name or a title.”
I was instantly tense and alert at hearing this. “What was it they called me? What name was it?” They looked at each other, alarmed at my sudden change in tone.
“Say My Name,” I commanded them.
“Khan,” they both replied.
I smiled at them both. They beamed back, instantly much relieved. I grinned a broad and happy grin, full of teeth that had not decayed in even the smallest way in more than two centuries. My “rescuers” had arrived, no doubt to bind me and bring me to an even lonelier and harsher prison. Doubtless they thought me weak and sick after my confinement here; “easy prey”. So be it! They were about to be taught a sharp lesson that they would not have over much time to learn from. And I was about to be rescued from this zoo, this dungeon. Yes, I and my companions would be leaving soon, on a ship provided to us by my enemies.
I am smiling. That alone should make them very , very afraid.
Have you ever experienced being penalized for not staying late at work? How did you handle it, and what was the outcome?
One company I worked for had a habit of asking managers, like me, to work when we shouldn’t be working. I was asked to work over and my answer was I’ve got childcare pick up, no can do. The store manager got grumpy, asked me which was more important, my child or my job. I told him that right now, I pick my child, and walked out the door.
The next day the store manager and I had a conference, you can guess the topic. I began by asking him what his wife did for her money. He responded that she didn’t work outside the home. I smiled and told him, “My wife is the Director of Public Relations for a world famous university, the AAU Indoor Track and Field Meet, and the upcoming Synchronized Swimming trials. The last two are to pick the people we send to the Olympics. Last night I had to pick up my daughter, get her into a dressy outfit, and get both of us to a semi-formal event relating to the Track and Field Meet. His suggestion was that I needed to make a choice of loyalties.
I nodded, picked up my laptop case, the only PC in the store, and walked out, yes I quit on the spot. He followed me as I went down the stairs once he realized he had a bigger issue, if I quit he was there all alone. As I hit the bottom step I turned and simply waved goodbye.
I had a job 5 minutes after I walked out the door, I used my car phone to make a couple of calls, and had a better job starting on the following Monday.
The Judge ain’t playin’
Is there any scenario where using a nuclear weapon could be seen as beneficial for a country like Russia?
Yes. There’s a temptation to replay the Cold War to talk about this but the Soviet Union is not modern Russia. The USSR did not see a nuclear war with the West as winnable or rational; it proved over and over again that it saw real value in early escalation and viewed it as likely that the West would back down from the threat of a nuclear exchange. That is to say that Soviet nuclear policy was a near mirror of American nuclear policy in viewing nuclear escalation as inevitable and nuclear war as irrational.
That is not the position of the Russian government today.
For starters, since the fall of the USSR, Russia has had one of the lowest nuclear “first-use” thresholds of any country. Then, in 2024, Russia released a document titled “Basic Principles of State Policy on Nuclear Deterrence” which dramatically lowered Russia’s nuclear threshold.
Two points are worth calling out here. First, Russia tried to use the 2024 document to signal to the Biden administration and the West more generally that it will escalate the war in Ukraine before accepting defeat there. The new standard allows Moscow to use nuclear weapons in response to a conventional attack on Russia that is supported by another nuclear power.
It is not a coincidence that Russia announced this on the 1,000th day of its ill-fated Ukraine invasion. Russia Foreign Minister Sergy Lavrov did not mince words at a G20 meeting in Brazil:
If the long-range missiles are used from the territory of Ukraine against the Russian territory, it will mean that they are controlled by American military experts and we will view that as a qualitatively new phase of the Western war against Russia and respond accordingly.
The message is as clear as diplomats get: “if you supply Ukraine with missiles that are used against us, we may respond with nuclear weapons.”
This signaling of increased willingness to escalate to a first use of nuclear weapons captured the majority of the media’s attention around the 2024 Russian announcement but few understood it in context. Back in 2003 the Russian Defense Ministry laid out an “escalate-to-deescalate” strategy which amounts to a doctorine holding that a rapid escalation including the use of nuclear weapons will force the United States to back down and deescalate.
This is a radical departure from the way that nuclear escalation was viewed during the Cold War. Russia is saying that, if backed into a corner, it believes that it can lash out with nuclear weapons — likely against non-American targets — causing the United States to recoil in horror rather than launching a counter-attack.
In short, Russia believes that first-use of nuclear weapons could be strategically advantageous to it and that a Russian nuclear strike — especially against non-nuclear powers — would not be met with retaliation. Regardless of how seriously we take Russia’s threats, Putin clearly understands that Russia’s conventional military is struggling in Ukraine and that the war is sapping his legitimacy and support at home. While Russia might be able to afford to simply lose the Ukraine conflict, Putin himself can not.
Right or wrong, Russia has convinced itself that it can win a nuclear war by ruthless, violent audacity. And if the chips fall the wrong way, Putin may think it’s his only winning mode.
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.
What Monopoly piece was retired?
Many.
The Thimble is interesting though and retired is a soft word for it – It was killed by a committee, a hard mob. Hasbro let the internet vote in 2017.
The people wanted new things – They voted out the Thimble, an original thing from 1935. They voted out the Boot and the Wheelbarrow too – In their place, they got a T-Rex. A penguin. A rubber duck. The Thimble, a thing of work, was replaced by a lizard.
An unexpected thing happened.
The mob got fickle, they wanted the old way – Another vote. In 2022. A throwback vote, the people wanted the Thimble back – It won. The Thimble returned to the board – it kicked the T-Rex ass into extinction.
Usually retired means retired – Thimble was retired, but it was meaner than the T-Rex, thus didn’t stay dead. It came back.
38.1K views
Oh, divorce is wonderful!
What did people do before food stamps and ssi?
My father was born in 1939 into a poor family in eastern north Carolina. By poor, I mean living in a one room shack with an earthen floor and newspaper and magazine pages covering the gap filled wood plank walls to try to keep out some of the cold during the winter. They were too poor to afford a small kerosene heater.
To help put food on the table for himself, his two sisters and parents, who both worked by the way, my Dad began working at 4 years old picking tobacco at a farm. It is backbreaking, exhausting work that even adults struggled with. His lunch was a biscuit and water from a rusty tap near a barn.
After dinner, which often consisted of only biscuits, collard greens and “pot likker”, the liquid left over from boiling the greens, they would clear the table and load it with tobacco that needed the leaves removed. It earned a little bit of extra money.
Every once in a while, his uncle who owned a small subsistence level farm, would slaughter a pig and give some meat to my father’s family. It was considered a huge treat but was doled out in very small amounts to make it last. Dad told me that the best thing in the world was when my grandma would fry up some bacon and put it in a biscuit. He often had to choose between eating it then or saving it for lunch. There was no such thing as breakfast in their house which meant you went out the door for a hard day’s work of manual labour on an empty stomach.
As he got a little older, he took on other jobs in addition to picking tobacco, such as delivering newspapers and packaged sandwiches to corner grocery stores.
In addition to the substandard living situation, lack of food and a decent childhood, my father had to endure being picked on by his better off classmates for being poor. His senior high school yearbook, which he could not afford to buy, listed him as “Least Likely to Ever Achieve Anything.” Despite that and being picked on, my father was determined to attend his graduation. He had to borrow a pair of shoes and a cheap suit to do it but he went.
And he most definitely did not end up being “Least Likely to Ever Achieve Anything”. Far from it but that is a story for another day.
My Dad was very non-judgmental about and incredibly generous to poor people until the day he died and even after due to bequests to people and organisations in his Will.
Miss you, Dad.
NB: Thank you for taking the time to read my answer. I have decided to disable comments, something I have only done twice since joining Quora, because so many people were commenting and it was becoming difficult to keep track of them let alone reply.
Detectives Discover Horrifying Secrets of Monster Mom
What the fuck!
I mean this is just horrific! What the Hell!
Read these comments, and then watch this video. Holy SHIT!
