You don’t need a perfect setting for a perfect moment

When I was nineteen, I briefly had a “sugar mommy”.

As in, an older woman (late thirties) who provided me with some financial support in exchange for, well… my service. I can’t say I’m proud of this, looking back. But I was young and honestly rather gorgeous at the time. And suddenly I found myself eating expensive sushi meals and sipping fancy wines in someone’s nice apartment while I ignored her annoying little pet dog, her couch alone worth more than everything I owned in the world.

She was Eastern European, approaching forty but in pretty decent shape. Red hair, bright blue eyes, some sort of skin condition that she was terribly insecure about and a little awkward to talk to. She was also fabulously rich, having come into a fortune after her father died. All I had to do, was be available. Sympathize with her. And sell this idea of a perfect relationship. It was just that — an idea. A fiction. But she ate it up, loved it and asked for seconds. Most of all, she just wanted someone to care, and it was quite sad. Being young and somewhat immoral, I did what she asked of me, and more. Not always with the greatest enthusiasm but at that age, my body was so eager she could never have told the difference anyway…

It all ended rather abruptly around the time I turned 20. And I wasn’t sad about that, because she had become rather clingy and possessive of me, which I disliked. I also felt a little nasty and disgusted with myself each time I left her apartment. But the money was good, and it’s honest work since there was no pretense involved on my end. It’s a dirty job, but someone’s got to do it!

Pictures

 

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Let me put it this way:

If China were an electoral democracy, then the candidate to win the next election for president in China would be the one who promises an invasion of Taiwan on his first day in office.

Since the founding of the PRC in 1949, the #1 strategic goal above all else has been the reunification of Taiwan. It is the last chapter of the Chinese civil war which started in 1927, and may very well end in 2027.

This isn’t to say that the majority of Chinese want Taiwan invaded tomorrow. I suspect the % is probably in the low 30s. But for those who want to see reunification ASAP, it’s a much more important issue for them than for those who don’t want or care about invading Taiwan. It’s much like only a small % of Americans oppose gun control, but those who do are single-issue voters, and thus their votes count more.

But if you frame the question as “would you like to see a peaceful reunification of Taiwan?”, then you’d be hard pressed to find a single Chinese saying “no”.

So to summarize, over 90% of Chinese would like to reunify Taiwan, but only a minority of them would like to see it be achieved through military means. However, this minority is far more vocal and passionate about the issue.

This Asian Boss street interview was conducted in Shanghai, the most liberal cucked city in China, but there is still broad agreement that Taiwan must be reunified, even if not through military force.

To further break this down, here’s how public opinion splits on the issue of military reunification, and why:

WHY CHINESE DON’T WANT REUNIFICATION BY FORCE OF ARMS:

  1. Chinese have no stomach for war. Never had, never will. It’s one of our biggest weaknesses.
  2. Chinese see Taiwanese as fellow countrymen, and recoil at the idea of continuing the civil war.
  3. Very liberal Chinese see Taiwan as a bastion of liberal democracy for Chinese, and don’t want to see it go down.

WHY CHINESE DO WANT REUNIFICATION BY FORCE OF ARMS:

  1. The reunification of Taiwan by any means necessary is seen as the final chapter in the rejuvenation of Chinese civilization, which is the greatest force behind Chinese nationalism.
  2. More strategically minded Chinese see Taiwan’s reunification as the only way to break through American encirclement of China’s eastern seaboard.
  3. Khorne-enjoyers see it as an opportunity for China to take on the US and become the new global hegemon, or at least the new Asian hegemon.

Broadly speaking, these points are the same that affect the Chinese govt’s calculus. They too are extremely hesitant to start an offensive war, but they also understand the historical significance of such a move as well as the strategic benefits.

On Nov 7, 2025, the PLAN commissioned their 3rd fleet carrier, the Fujian. The fact that Fujian is the name of the province closest to Taiwan, and thus the launchpad for any future invasion of Taiwan is not an accident. The message is clear. It’d be like if the Russians commissioned a ship as “Kiev”.

“LET ME DO SOME GREAT THING THAT SHALL BE SPOKEN OF AMONG MEN HEREAFTER”

In the Iliad, when Hector is faced with death at the hands of Achilles, his last line is:

“Let me not die ingloriously, and without a struggle. But let me first do some great thing that shall be spoken of among men hereafter.”

This obsession with legacy is endemic among all great men. Xi’s greatest enemy isn’t Taiwan, and it’s not even the US; it’s time. Time is the one thing he can’t beat, and loses ground to every day.

So for XJP personally, the greatest incentive for military reunification of Taiwan has nothing to do with economics, the military, or even political, it’s legacy.

Xi, like all learned Chinese men, is a student of history. He knows full well that the only Chinese emperors whose names as remembered today are those who took great risks, and won great wars. No one will be remembered for making GDP go up, or building green energy. But if he retakes Taiwan, then his name will ring through the millennia.

Sir Whiskerton and the Case of the Leaky Love Seat

Ah, dear reader, you return to find me, Sir Whiskerton, acting not as a detective of crime, but as an observer of the most delicate and fragile of human mysteries: the human heart. This is a tale not of a villain, but of a squeak; not of a grand theft, but of a grand, romantic failure. It is a story that proves that the path to true connection is often paved with good intentions and very, very bad carpentry. So, settle in for the tender, toe-curlingly awkward tale of The Leaky Love Seat.

The Squeak of Social Anxiety

It began with a sound—a forlorn, rhythmic SKREEEE-awk, SKREEEE-awk—that echoed from the farmhouse porch. It was the sound of the Farmer’s favorite two-person rocking chair, a throne of quiet contemplation and, on rare, magical occasions, a shared seat for lemonade with Martha.

The Farmer was in a state of profound distress. Martha was due for a visit, and the chair’s romantic squeak had escalated into a sound reminiscent of a stepped-on goose. He was a man who could talk to a scarecrow about the secrets of the cosmos, but the thought of asking Martha to sit with him on a chair that screamed in protest was a social hurdle too high to clear.

His solution? He hired professionals. Or, more accurately, he hired Cecil and Chester—the DIY duo known to the animal kingdom as the 翻车二人组 (The Epic Fail Brothers).

The Repair of Ruinous Romance

We animals watched, a captive audience to the impending catastrophe. Cecil arrived first, clutching his Handyman’s Handbook like a sacred text.

“Fascinating!” he declared, peering at the chair. “The oscillation joint is clearly suffering from planar friction fatigue. The handbook recommends a strategic application of adhesive and a counter-torque.”

This translated to him emptying half a bottle of wood glue into the joint, effectively sealing the rockers in place.

Chester, arriving late and wielding a hammer with unnerving enthusiasm, was unimpressed. “Glue? GLUE? That’s a temporary fix! This chair needs passion! It needs steam!” He then produced a kettle, and in a misguided attempt to “steam-bend” the wood back into submission, managed to warp the entire backrest into a distinct, lopsided spiral.

The final “repair” was a masterpiece of failure. The chair no longer rocked. It listed to the port side like a shipwrecked galleon, its backrest curving into a shape that suggested a demented swan. It was, for all intents and purposes, a stationary, one-person throne of shame.

The Porch Steps of Possibility

When Martha’s cheerful call echoed from the lane, the Farmer looked from the monstrous creation to the approaching vision of his crush in a lovely sunhat. His shoulders slumped in defeat. He quietly fetched two glasses of lemonade and, bypassing the chair entirely, sat on the top step of the porch with a sigh of resignation.

Martha arrived, her smile fading as she took in the scene: the glue-smeared, lopsided chair, and the dejected Farmer on the steps.

“Oh, dear,” she said, her voice soft with understanding. “Did the old rocker finally give up the ghost?”

The Farmer could only nod mutely.

Martha, without a moment’s hesitation, sat down beside him on the step. “This is nice,” she said, smoothing her skirt. “The view is much better from here anyway.”

They sat in a comfortable, if slightly nervous, silence, watching the honey-gold light of the setting sun wash over the fields.

The Lemonade Catalyst

Then came the moment that had every animal on the farm leaning forward in anticipation. Martha reached for her glass of lemonade at the exact same moment the Farmer, thinking to be chivalrous, tried to hand it to her. Their fingers brushed.

It was a simple, fleeting touch. But on that quiet porch, it was as loud as thunder.

They both pulled their hands back as if shocked.
A deep blush spread across the Farmer’s cheeks. Martha looked down, a soft, pink tinge coloring her own face. There was a pause, a breath held by the entire farm. Then, they both looked up, caught each other’s eye, and shared a soft, understanding smile that was more eloquent than any love sonnet Ferdinand the Duck could ever compose.

From the bushes, we let out a collective, frustrated groan.
“Oh, for the love of truffles,” muttered Porkchop the Pig, voicing the sentiment of all. “Just hold the glass for her! Or her hand! Something!”

But they didn’t. They just sat there, smiling shyly at their lemonade, their quiet contentment speaking volumes more than any grand gesture ever could.

The Resolution
The broken chair was eventually moved to the “Disneyland of Debris,” where it became a favorite, if unstable, perch for napping cats. The Farmer never did fix the squeak. He didn’t need to. He and Martha had found their spot on the porch steps, a perfect, un-squeaky place for shared silence and the occasional, electrifying brush of fingers.

Moral of the Story: You don’t need a perfect setting for a perfect moment. True connection isn’t found in the absence of awkwardness, but in the quiet, shared smile that exists within it.

The Aftermath
Cecil and Chester, oblivious to the romantic turmoil they had inadvertently fostered, proudly added “Romantic Furniture Restoration” to their list of (dis)services. And the Farmer, the very next day, was seen sanding the splinters off the top porch step.
And so, dear reader, we close this chapter on a sweet, slightly sticky note—but rest assured, the farm’s next adventure is just one shy glance away.
The End.


Post-Credit Scene:

The following week, Cecil and Chester present the Farmer with their “solution” to the step-sitting: two individual, wildly asymmetrical stools they’ve carved. One is three-legged and wobbles, the other is so short one’s knees are tucked under their chin. The Farmer stares at them for a long moment, then politely uses one as a very unconventional plant stand.

Best Lines:

  • “The oscillation joint is clearly suffering from planar friction fatigue!” – Cecil, over-analyzing a squeak.

  • “This chair needs passion! It needs steam!” – Chester, before warping it forever.

  • “Oh, for the love of truffles, just hold the glass for her!” – Porkchop, the exasperated romantic.

Starring:

  • Sir Whiskerton (The Narrator & Silent Observer of Human Quirks)

  • The Farmer & Martha (The Flustered Protagonists)

  • Cecil & Chester (The Architects of Romantic Ruin)

  • Porkchop the Pig (The Voice of the Audience)

P.S.
Remember: The most beautiful relationships are not built on flawless execution, but on the willingness to sit together on the steps, enjoy the lemonade, and smile through the awkward, beautiful silence. Sometimes, the best fix is knowing when to just leave things broken.

Tracked. Basically existing tanks.

I think we’ve settled the debate of wheeled vs tracked main battle tanks ages ago so it’s not worth bringing up. Wheeled “tanks” are most likely just lightly armored vehicle/motorized gun carriers rather than an actual “tank”. It can hit hard, but most definitely can’t take any.

Legged? Star Wars already showed why that’s a problem:

You can trip over obstacles. Also, the supposed mobility benefit is negligible because a well-designed tracked tank can also climb tough obstacles, even something that looks like a staircase.

The big issue with legs is that it’s going to sink on soft ground. The small contact area means that it exerts far more pressure on the ground than wheels, let alone tracks. Once it’s stuck, it’s going to take a lot of effort to get it unstuck considering that it can’t just roll like wheels or tracks.

And lastly, it’s fucking complex. Have you ever seen the skeleton and muscles that made the leg function? Compare that system to simple rollers like wheels and tracks. Far fewer part count, much easier control (as in, it’s just RPM), easier to stabilize because all of them are in contact with the ground (in the words of my robotics professor: “Walking is trust falling; you’re trusting your other leg to catch you before you hit the ground”), and easier to repair/replace.

Legged vehicles are the worst and I honestly believe walking robots are more for gimmicks rather than practical use.

Hover tanks? We sort of have that, of sorts:

It’s also a poor “traditional” tank. Again, since you’re lifting your weight using some kind of engine, it spends a lot of energy hovering above ground when it could just not do that at all. Meaning, it eats up precious fuel that may not be available in abundance during a war.

The weight limit is also not a great thing. Heavier = more energy for hovering, so it works against putting heavy armor.

Another problem that people don’t realize actually happened in the behind-the-scenes of Die Another Day. The opening scene featured a hovercraft chase.

It was edited to hell and back for a simple reason: These hovering machines were terrible in terms of maneuverability. Because they’re not in contact with the ground (by definition), they tend to go on and on instead of coming to a stop like a car or a normal tank. So if the camera kept rolling what you would find is instead of a slick chase scene, everyone’s fighting their own hovercraft trying to change directions.

Yes, road/ground friction wastes a lot of energy, but it is key to ground vehicle maneuverability. The only way to make a hover vehicle agile is to put loads of powerful thrusters 360 degrees around the vehicle. But this is a tank that is meant to be shot at, so you can cripple an enemy hover tank without penetrating the armor by simply damaging the engines.

It’s not a glamorous answer, but there’s a reason why nobody in real-life is moving away from something that looks like the Abrams/Leopard/T-90.

The 11 Silent Rules of Survival No One Tells You

The Mansion of Perfect Scores

Written in response to: Write a story that has a big twist.

M.S. Lee

Horror Science Fiction Thriller

 

The mansion was a beast. It loomed above the hills like a predator in stone, marble steps gleaming in the late sun. Each window glared with light, sharp and judging, as though daring the world to call it anything less than perfect. Inside, perfection came at a cost. Morgan scrubbed on her knees, rag soaked, fingers raw. Sweat rolled down her back as she pushed the cloth in furious circles across the polished floor of Mae’s primary bedroom. Dust vanished beneath her hands, fingerprints erased, mirrors gleaming with a shine sharp enough to cut. Mae, Morgan’s boyfriend’s sister, drifted in with a glass of Chardonnay in one hand, her sleek dress untouched by sweat or labor. Ken, her husband, leaned in the doorway with arms crossed, watching like a king surveying his kingdom. Jace, Morgan’s boyfriend, appeared behind her, shirt clinging to his chest from helping with the heavier lifting earlier. His smile was thin, tired. “Almost done?” he asked softly. “Almost,” Morgan muttered, biting down irritation. Almost wasn’t good enough, not for Mae. When the final streak of dust was gone, Mae set her glass down and smoothed her hair. Then she picked up her phone, tapping the screen with manicured nails. “Time for the evaluation,” she sang. Morgan froze; rag still damp in her hand. “Evaluation?” Mae winked. “Every month. The house gets scored. It’s how we keep our reputation. One wrong mark and people talk.” The line clicked. A man’s voice came through, flat, nasal, and official. “This is House Integrity. I’m standing by for your report.” Mae stepped into the center of the room, chin lifted. “Yes. This is Mae Gordon, reporting in. The bedroom is ready for inspection.” “Proceed.” Mae lifted the phone, panning it slowly around the pristine room. The mirrors sparkled. The carpet had no trace of lint; no sign a human had ever stepped across it. Morgan’s arms ached from scrubbing it down, but Mae’s voice poured through the line with syrupy ease. The man cleared his throat. “Perfect. Ten out of ten. Impeccable.” Mae laughed, a light, triumphant sound. “Wonderful. Thank you, as always.” The call ended. She slipped the phone into her pocket with a smug smile. “Perfect score. Again.” Morgan clenched her rag so tight the wet cloth dripped between her fingers. The anger burned inside her chest, sharp and bitter. The house wasn’t perfect because of Mae. It was perfect because of her. She wanted to scream it, to throw the rag in Mae’s face, but instead she smiled tightly and said nothing. The silence pressed heavy. Ken nodded with approval. Jace sighed in quiet pride, glad for his sister. Morgan swallowed the storm. And then the house groaned. At first, it was subtle, a faint scrape along the window. The soft drag of something across glass. Mae frowned. “What was that?” Another scrape. A dull thump. Ken stepped toward the window, irritation twisting his face. “Probably raccoons. Or kids messing around.” But then the shadow appeared. A pale hand slapped against the windowpane, fingers crooked, nails torn and yellow. Another hand followed. Then another. The glass rattled. “Oh my God,” Mae whispered. Figures lurched into view, staggering across the perfectly trimmed lawn. At first glance, they looked ridiculous: Halloween costumes sagging and torn. A witch’s hat drooped over a face half-rotted away. A clown mask hung crooked, smeared with old blood. A devil cape fluttered behind a corpse with its ribs showing through shredded flesh. Ken staggered back. “The hell?” The first one crashed through the glass. Shards rained down as the thing stumbled into the room, jaw snapping wide. Its mask hung half-off, revealing rotting gums slick with black saliva. The stench was unbearable. Mae shrieked. “Fight it! Morgan, fight it!” The zombie lunged. Morgan swung the rag still in her hand, useless, then grabbed a jagged shard of glass from the floor. She rammed it into the thing’s throat. Hot, black blood sprayed across her arm. The corpse gurgled and collapsed. Another slammed against the broken window. Then another. Dozens crowded at the glass, their moans rising in a hideous chorus. “Run!” Jace shouted. The room erupted into chaos. Ken grabbed a lamp and swung wildly, the ceramic base exploding against a zombie’s head. Blood and brain matter painted the wall. Another corpse lunged, teeth snapping, and Ken shoved it back but a third rushed from behind, sinking teeth deep into his arm. Flesh ripped, blood sprayed. His scream tore through the house. “Ken!” Mae shrieked, but her cry ended in a sob as a zombie in a devil mask sank its teeth into his throat, ripping it open in a fountain of gore. He gargled, hands clawing, before the creature ripped his head halfway off. Blood soaked the pristine carpet, staining it a black red. Mae’s scream split the air. Jace grabbed her wrist. “Move!” They bolted down the hallway. Morgan ran after them, slipping on blood slick beneath her shoes. More creatures poured into the mansion; their rotted faces twisted into grotesque smiles. The portraits on the walls seemed to watch in silence as the humans fled beneath them. The Jeep waited outside. Their last salvation. Morgan threw herself into the back seat, heart pounding so loud it drowned out the snarls. She slammed the locks down, hands trembling. Mae scrambled through the open rear window, collapsing into the front seat, sobbing. Jace yanked at the driver’s side door but before he could climb in, three zombies caught him. One clamped its jaws around his leg, tearing it away at the knee. He screamed, eyes wide with shock as blood sprayed the gravel. Another clawed open his stomach, dragging intestines out like wet ropes. “Jace!” Morgan shrieked, pounding against the glass. His gaze locked on her for one last, desperate moment then the third creature ripped open his chest, teeth snapping around his heart. The sound of bone cracking echoed through the night. Her boyfriend was gone. Morgan screamed until her throat tore. She slammed the locks again, tears streaking her blood-soaked cheeks. The creatures feasted outside, tearing him apart in the gravel. The Jeep roared to life under her grip. She slammed the gas, tires spinning. One zombie clung to the rear bumper, its jaw snapping as it dragged behind. Mae shrieked and kicked, blood spraying her legs, until the thing finally fell away, crushed beneath the tires. The mansion shrank in the rearview mirror, swallowed by the dark. Morgan drove blind, grief like fire in her chest, hands slick with blood. The only sound in the Jeep was Mae’s ragged sobs and the low moans of the horde that still lingered, somewhere behind them. Everyone else was gone. Only Morgan and Mae remained, covered in gore, breathless, alive. For now.

Hamburger Hash

Vegetables other than potatoes can be omitted or added as desired. This is good hot, warm or cold!

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Ingredients

  • 1 pound ground beef
  • 1 large onion, chopped
  • 1 pound potatoes, cut into small chunks
  • 1/2 medium onion, diced
  • 2 stalks celery, sliced thin
  • As many mushrooms as wanted, sliced
  • 1 garlic clove, minced
  • 2 tablespoons beef bouillon
  • Several good shakes Worcestershire sauce
  • Salt and pepper
  • 1/2 teaspoon Montreal steak spice
  • Water to cover

Instructions

  1. Brown beef and onion in a large saucepan until meat is no longer pink.
  2. Add vegetables, bouillon, spices and water to cover. Cover saucepan, lower heat and let simmer for 30 minutes, or until potatoes are tender and water has reduced/evaporated.

HOMEMADE BAGUETTE | No-Knead French Baguette Bread