I’m still on my diet. And I am doing great.
I lost 15kg… which is about 10 cm. That’s a healthy amount of weight.
I took the Lazy-method to so so and it works.
So here is what I am doing…
- Light easy slow jog for 20 minutes (I mean it. Slow.) The trick is that I do every single day. No exceptions.
- Diet, as I have said. I can anything in any quantity BUT no potatoes, rice, breads, noodles, and starchy foods.
- No sugar. No processed food.
- Lift weights two times a week for 30 minutes. no breaks.
Today I am about a 11% to 12% body fat.
I think that our bodies do need to have some fat reserves, and 0% to 8% is unrealistic. So just try to be healthy and you will be fine.
I believe in all youse guys. If I can do it. SO CAN YOU.
Today…
NOIR WHISPERS—1960s French Crime Lounge Mix | Moody Style Chill Atmosphere, Late Night Ambience
Enjoy this BGM while you read today’s presentations.
How did the old timer gold miners know when the mines were empty?
The fellows on reality shows like “Yukon Gold” may have more modern equipment than the miners who explored the area in the late 19th century, but in reality working a claim hasn’t changed much.
So, essentially, to work a claim, you dig soil and crush rock and throw the whole thing into a “sluice box”. “Panning” is only for exploratory work to show there is gold there. The actual operation uses natural water flows to separate the gold nuggets (which are really small) from everything else.
You can get bigger ones or smaller ones, but the principle is the same.
Anyway, you throw gold bearing soil and rock into this thing all day and, at the end of the day, you get the gold and weigh it up. Gold goes for like $30 a gram on a bad day and gold is very dense so those tiny bits can add up fast.
But the important thing is to track your “yield” or how much gold you get at the end of a day’s work. Then you plot that on a graph. Usually, at first, if you’ve found a productive area, you get more gold each day as you follow the most promising areas.
But at some point, no matter how smart you are and how hard you work, one day the gold yield goes down. At some point, maybe very quickly, maybe only at the end of the season before everything freezes up, the amount of gold you extract isn’t enough to pay your fixed daily costs like fuel and labor. Time to move on to somewhere more promising.
Col 29 – 540 Sir Whiskerton and the Case of the Consent Bell
A Tale of Blorp, Belonging, and the Bravery of Asking
Ah, dear reader, welcome back to the farm, where the sun shines on blooming friendships and, occasionally, on the gentle, glistening form of a creature born of love and compost. Today’s tale is not one of grand heists or cosmic calamities, but of a quiet heartbreak and the delicate, beautiful solution it inspired. It is a story about how the deepest belonging isn’t assumed—it is asked for, and cherished in the answer, whatever it may be.
Life for the farm’s Official Comfort Officer, the Poop Monster known affectionately as Poo Poo, had settled into a rhythm of gentle, joyful service. He had learned his lessons well. A soft blorp was his question: “May I hug you?” A patient pause for the answer. A squelch of understanding if the answer was “Not right now, thank you.”
His days were filled with the warm, fuzzy currency of consented affection. He soothed anxious chicks, gave grounding hugs to over-excited piglets, and was a favorite napping spot for sun-drenched cats. But in his big, pulsing heart, there was one being he admired from a respectful distance: Millie the Milkmaid.
Millie, a cheerful and efficient woman who helped Martha, was Poo Poo’s pinnacle of grace. She moved with a gentle certainty, sang while she worked, and her laughter was like the chime of clean milk pails. Poo Poo thought she was the most wonderful thing on two legs.
One bright morning, opportunity seemed to knock. Millie was carrying a heavy basket of eggs, her arms full. She didn’t see the stray garden hose coiled near the path. Her foot caught, and with a gasp, she stumbled.
Poo Poo, watching from his post by the clover patch, acted on pure instinct—not of predation, but of protection. He surged forward, a wave of warm, supportive ooze, and caught the basket with one appendage while gently steadying Millie with another.
But he had forgotten to ask.
Millie, startled by the sudden, warm, glistening embrace from a creature she’d only seen from afar, let out a small, sharp yelp. She recoiled, stepping back quickly, her eyes wide with surprise, not malice, but surprise all the same.
To Poo Poo, it was a cataclysm.
The warm light in his adoring eyes flickered. The happy, steady pulse within his form grew dim and slow. He let out a soft, devastated sound—“blorp…?”—that trailed off into silence. Carefully, he set the basket down, untouched, and then he turned. With a slow, despondent squelch, he retreated, not to his usual sunny spot, but into the deepest, darkest corner of the barn, where he curled into a small, dull mound. The barn seemed to grow colder.
The farm felt his sorrow. The chickens clucked nervously. Rufus whined, nosing at the barn door.
Doris the Hen, having witnessed the scene, was the first to articulate the problem. She strutted into the barn, pecking at a seed thoughtfully. “Well, it’s a classic social gaffe, isn’t it? You can’t just… envelop someone. You have to ask first! It’s basic etiquette!”
From the dim corner came a mournful, pulsing thought that everyone felt: But how do I ask when I don’t speak your words?
Doris paused. “Oh. Well. That is a poser.”
The moral of our story, dear reader, is this: True tenderness is not just an impulse; it is a practice. It requires a language, and the bravest part of connection is building a bridge for that language to cross.
Word of Poo Poo’s heartbreak and Doris’s conundrum reached Sir Whiskerton. He found the creature not with a detective’s scrutiny, but with a friend’s quiet presence. He sat beside the dim mound, not speaking for a long moment.
“The intention,” Sir Whiskerton said finally, his voice low, “was pure. The execution, however, lacked a crucial tool. You need a signal. A clear, unmistakable, and gentle way to ask.”
Poo Poo pulsed once, a dim glow of hope.
An idea began to form. Sir Whiskerton sought out Chef Remy, the creator, and Zephyr, the animator. In Remy’s cluttered lab, they pondered. A flag? Too blowy. A sign? Poo Poo had no hands to hold it.
Then, Zephyr’s gaze fell upon an old, forgotten brass bell, the kind that once hung on a goat’s collar. “Whoa,” he murmured. “Sound, man. Vibration. Pure, clear energy. What if the ask wasn’t a word… but a tone?”
Remy’s eyes lit up. “Oui! We modify! We imbue it with ze essence of ze question!”
What followed was a workshop of whimsy. Remy, with his delicate tools, carefully etched tiny, swirling patterns into the bell’s surface—patterns that looked suspiciously like happy, looping clouds. Zephyr held his hands over it, channeling not grand magic, but the specific, gentle magic of patient inquiry.
“Infuse it with the vibe of ‘May I?’” Sir Whiskerton instructed. “Not demand. Not expectation. Pure, open-ended question.”
Zephyr concentrated. The bell glowed softly, then let out a single, perfect, resonant sound. It was not a ding. It was a crystalline, beautiful BLORP.
They tied it with a soft, rainbow-hued ribbon (a donation from Bessie’s stash) around what served as Poo Poo’s neck. Sir Whiskerton demonstrated.
“When you wish to ask,” he said, nodding at the bell.
Poo Poo focused. He gave a gentle, internal shiver. The bell on his ribbon chimed: BLORP. The sound was clear, kind, and impossible to misunderstand.
“And,” Sir Whiskerton added, placing a paw on Poo Poo’s side, “when you receive a ‘yes’ or a ‘no,’ you answer with your own truth.” He felt Poo Poo’s body make its familiar, happy squelch of understanding.
The Consent Bell was born.
The test came a few days later. Millie was back, singing softly as she brushed down the patient dairy cow. Poo Poo watched from a respectful distance, gathering his courage. Finally, he took a deep, squelchy breath and shuffled forward, stopping a good ten feet away.
He focused. The tiny brass bell chimed its pure, questioning note: BLORP?
Millie stopped brushing. She turned. She saw the creature, the hopeful tilt of his glistening head, and the little bell. Her surprise melted into a warm, understanding smile. She remembered her own startled reaction and felt a pang of sympathy.
“Well, hello there,” she said softly. “Are you asking for a hug?”
Poo Poo pulsed, waiting.
Millie nodded. “I’d like that. Thank you for asking.”
She walked over and opened her arms. Poo Poo leaned in, enveloping her in the warm, safe, consented embrace he was made for. His whole body shimmered with a joyful, golden light, and he chimed a second, happier BLORP, followed by his contented, grateful Squelch.
A Happy Ending
The Consent Bell became a beloved part of farm life. Its clear, honest chime was a sound of respect that everyone understood. Children from nearby farms would visit, learning to listen for the BLORP before offering a pat. Even Doris, one afternoon after a particularly trying day involving a misplaced worm, approached the bell, heard its chime, and after a moment’s hesitation, allowed a brief, surprisingly comforting hug.
Poo Poo’s heartbreak had forged not just a tool, but a deeper truth. His embarrassment had become a connection, a shared lesson in the vulnerability of asking. He wasn’t just tolerated; he was understood. He belonged not in spite of his need to ask, but because of the gentle, respectful practice his asking represented.
Sir Whiskerton, watching the once-dull mound now glow steadily by the sunlit barn door, felt a profound peace. The farm had taught another gentle lesson: that the strongest bonds are built not on assumption, but on the simple, brave, beautiful question, and the sacred space of the answer that follows.
And so, dear reader, we leave our farm a little kinder, a little more patient, its air occasionally filled with the sound of a tiny, perfect bell asking, with all its heart, “Blorp?”
The End.
What is normal in the United States that British find weird?
The fact that US citizens are more scared of nipples (and the like) than guns.
The Christmas classic Love Actually — one of the British movies of the last two decades, featuring the great Bill Nighy among many other legendary British actors — has more nipples in it than Basic Instinct, which is actually an ǝrotic thriller directed by a Dutch guy. (Anyways.)
Strangely enough, the (rather tame) nudity in Basic Instinct shocked more people in the US than the bloody murders. So I wonder if your average American family ever even watches Love Actually on a snowy Christmas day — nipples and all.
To add insult to injury, in the UK (and many other European countries such as Denmark and The Netherlands, for that matter), toddlers are allowed to play and run around naked on public beaches, and nobody cares if your 2-year-old is undressed by the swimming pool either. We once tried the latter in the US, and it didn’t fare well.
The fact that some US citizens carry guns in public seems to be a lesser problem, though —
In the US, apparently, the nipple is scarier than the sword.
Layered Meatball Casserole
Ingredients
- 1 layer raw sliced potatoes
- 1 layer sliced onions
- 1 layer 1 inch bacon strips, uncooked
- 1 layer sliced green bell pepper
- 1 layer sliced carrots
- 1 layer small meatballs, uncooked
- 1 layer cheese slices
- 3 tablespoons uncooked rice
- Salt and pepper
- 1 can cream of chicken soup
- 1 cup milk
Instructions
- Spray a 13 x 9 x 2 inch baking dish.
- Arrange ingredients through rice in layers in order shown.
- Sprinkle with salt and pepper.
- Mix soup and milk. Pour over all.
- Bake at 350 degrees F for 1 1/2 to 2 hours, or until vegetables are cooked.
This is alarming beyond belief..an inside report of ICE treatment..MUST READ!!!
Good morning,
My name is Brandon Siguenza, and I am a US citizen from Minneapolis. Yesterday, while doing legal observation, ICE stopped their cars to harass my friend and me. They sprayed pepper spray into the vent of our vehicle. We held our hands in the air and told them we were not obstructing, that the car was in park and they were free to drive forward and away. There was no active immigration raid. They returned to their cars, and drove forward a bit, then decided to stop again. They surrounded us, smashed the windows of our car, opened the doors (they were unlocked), ripped my friend and I out of the car and arrested us on charges of obstruction.
I was put in an unmarked SUV, separated from my friend. As I was put in the back seat an ICE agent tore the whistle off my neck and said “I’ll be taking this, I might need it later.” My phone was knocked out of my hand while being arrested. As we drove away I asked the driver and the passenger if they wouldn’t mind buckling my seatbelt, as they were driving erratically. I was ignored. I asked them if I could have the handcuffs loosened, as I was losing circulation, and was told no. At one point the passenger realized his own driver’s license was in the backseat next to mine, and tried to surreptitiously grab it without me seeing it.
We were taken to the Whipple federal building, where I saw dozens of brown people being processed in an unheated garage. I was frisked, told of my charges, and saw buses and vans being prepped. I later learned that these were being filled with detainees and driven to the airport for deportation. As we were led in, I noticed that the building was very busy. I got the impression that one of the 2 agents bringing me around was being trained. At multiple points throughout my stay, government agents were unable to open doors, not sure where they were meant to be going, and overall confused and overwhelmed. They couldn’t figure out how to use the building phones, or complained about a lack of cell service preventing them from checking the internet or making calls.
The people in the cells were extremely scared. We heard people screaming “let me out!”, crying, wailing and terrified screams. There were cells with as many as 8 people. I have no way of knowing how long they have been there, if they were allowed any contact with the outside world, or if they were being brought food or water. Most people were staring at the ground with almost no energy. I was not allowed to talk to anyone imprisoned. I distinctly remember seeing a desperate woman. She was staring at the ground with her head in her hands crying, hopeless, while her friend or family member sat on a bathroom seat observed by 3 men.
My friend and I were put in an area for “USCs,” which we eventually learned meant US citizens, separated by gender. We were imprisoned for 8 hours, during which my friend was never allowed a phone call. I was allowed to call my wife and tell her where I was. During my interview with Special Agent William and Special Agent Garcia, they asked me to empty my pockets. When I pulled out gloves, Agent William said those were meant to be taken when I was processed, and complained about having to fill out the form again. He frisked me once more, where he found glass in my pocket from when our car window was shattered. He filled out the form listing my personal items again, but put the wrong date. I was read my rights, I pleaded the fifth and was led back to my cell.
Food, water, and bathroom breaks were extremely difficult to acquire. I would ask over the intercom provided in the cell for a bathroom break, be told someone was on their way, then ask again 20 minutes later, be told someone was on their way, wait another 20 minutes, etc. Eventually they either turned off the intercom or it stopped working, because no one would respond. I could get water and bathroom breaks by pounding on the glass when someone happened to walk by and beg them directly. Hours would go by without anyone checking on us. I am vegan and the only food they offered were turkey sandwiches, fruit snacks with gelatin, and granola bars with honey. I eventually ate a granola bar out of hunger.
I was in the cell alone for between 1 and 2 hours, then another man was put into my cell, whose shirt was ripped open from his arrest, and an injured toe, who was carried aggressively into an unmarked car during his arrest. After about 4-5 hours, another man was brought in who had a cut on his head from his arrest. He told me he was tackled by 4 or 5 agents during his arrest. At no point was he offered medical assistance.
Later I was told that a lawyer was here to see me, and I was able to speak with him in a visitation room. The special agent told me that the door could not be closed all the way, so it was cracked during my interaction with my lawyer. I got the impression that they were not used to having lawyers present, and were trying to follow procedure as best they could. I asked an agent if the other detainees were allowed lawyers and was not answered.
At one point, 3 men from the department of Homeland Security Investigations brought me into a cell. They insinuated that they could help me out. After inquiring several times what exactly they meant they finally told me that they could offer undocumented family members of mine legal protection if I have any (I don’t), or money, in exchange for giving them the names of protest organizers, or undocumented persons. I was shocked, and told them no.
Finally, after hours of detention, I was told to follow an agent. At no point was I told whether or not I was being charged, or where I was going, but I was led out of the building. I asked if I could use a phone to call my wife to pick me up, and was told I could not. After pleading for several minutes eventually Special Agent William let me use his phone to call my wife. As I was escorted off the property by government agents, I was told to turn right. I was escorted to the protest area, where 5 minutes later, tear gas was deployed and I was struck by a paint ball gun. I was not protesting, I was simply being released without charges after an 8 hour detention. I was on the other side of the street, as instructed by the agents that released me and the agents shouting orders over a bullhorn. A passerby who was tear gassed was panicking and having an asthma attack, so I helped her find a medic to get her an inhaler. I used a stranger’s phone to co-ordinate pickup, and was picked up by my wife.
During my detention I knew that I was being released. I knew that as a citizen of the United States I have legal protection. The hundred or so other people being detained had no such protection. At this time I don’t need your help, it is the families that are being separated, abused, terrorized, harassed and killed that need your help. If this is happening to me, an American citizen born in the United States, then what is happening to the people in here that have no one calling lawyers on their behalf? That have no constitutional rights to due process? What is happening to the people that they will never be released to see their families, go to their jobs, or walk through their city ever again?
Woman Sucked Into Engine – NTSB Final Report
Bill Gates was a programmer. How did he build a multibillion dollar company starting as a programmer, how can you follow that path?
I think that most people answering this question have never met Bill.
I worked at MSFT for 12 years and I can’t say that Bill and I went out for beers (and I’m sure he doesn’t know my name) but I have met with him several times and have watched him work from fairly close range.
Bill did not create MSFT the billion dollar powerhouse. He built Windows and to some extent Office but it was Steve and the team around him who built the business. The term we used was “BOOP” which stood for “Bill and the Office Of the President.” When you got an ask from BOOP you assumed it was coming from Bill but it really could be coming from any one of a dozen people.
When in a meeting or working with Bill, it was always about the product. About the technology. He is the smartest person I have ever met. He was famous for grilling product teams to the point where grown men would break down in tears. He wasn’t mean, but he usually knew more about your product than you did. You did not bullshit him. Ever.
I remember one time we got into a conversation about X.400 vs SMTP for about 20 minutes and he quickly went down deeper than I could go. Keep in mind that at the time Exchange Server was my only product and he was running the whole company. Also, this was in a casual lunch with the big boss type setting (I won a seat at the lunch as a prize) so he had not been prepped in advance.
How do you as a programmer become Bill Gates? Be crazy smart, be fanatical about your product and hire the smartest people you can find.
Also, doesn’t hurt to be lucky.
Bone Corner
Written in response to: “Center your story around a person who believes they’re the last human on Earth.“
Matt Keating
This story contains themes or mentions of suicide or self harm.
Bone Corner
Suicide Sickness hit the high-country hard as an ice storm and silent as a blight. Too frequently my rides into town were blocked by processions of mourners. The burials had turned to bonfires. The survivors circled the departed, howling around the flames. The ash only made it about a mile from the ceremonies before settling on stilled vehicles and once white windowsills. The snows didn’t wash it away, it clumped, and it dripped, and it stained everything gray. Burn-burials, as they called them, happened after the ground froze, and people kept on needing to be laid to rest. Folks considered several bodies sharing a grave to be morbidly unacceptable—but bodies sharing the flames, that was alright. At first it smelled like people were grilling chicken and burning hair at some disgraceful cook out. It’s confounding how much human flesh smells like barbecue and then how much burning the rotten clothes triggered that gag reflex deep within.
At least it was just the older folks back then.
Documentation of the goings on around Bone Corner are understandably lacking. Even the thinkers weren’t safe—and most of the journalists succumbed to the very thing they set out to journal on. For many, you could say, their manner of demise was reflective of their labors. Writers set their offices afire, all their daily efforts fueled the flames that did them in. Farmers fell on their pitchforks or hung from their hay lofts. Andy, the butcher was a ghoulish scene. Nobody quite knew how he brought the knocking hammer down on himself. The coroner said, “The man landed three blows before substantially damaging his brain.” Lawmen pressed their revolvers to their temples. Pharmacists swallowed up their supplies. Even Dean, the fella who ran the soda fountain since the days when I scrounged for coins to buy penny candy, was found frozen solid in his cooler—they chose to leave him right there until the spring.
The immune among us were said to be worse off than the afflicted. That’s what they said when the younger, healthier town folk succumbed to Sickness. I don’t know about that. I think my people were just lucky to live so remotely, far from the funeral fires, and with no children among us. Our cabins were twenty-seven miles far off along a road dusted with dismissed things. When compelled, I rode into town in the evenings, after my work was done. Our weekly supplies were neatly bundled out back behind the General Store. Simpson left the sack; I replaced it with the next week’s list and the appropriate coin. Beyond the dried goods and the occasional purchase of a fresh shirt or maybe a tablecloth for momma, we made do with the minimum of things. It’s thanks to our spread’s remove that we were spared the affliction that renamed Bonner City to how it’s known today.
Bone Corner.
You asked, so I’m telling. The worst days were toward the end. That’s when the disease changed somehow. Doc Bonner called it an evolution or a variant or the like. The old folks who ended themselves hard in the beginning were but an introduction to the shameful sadness of our tragedy. “Death was bound for them anyway,” we reminded each other. Better to go peaceful. Don’t raise a fuss about it.
“The end ends all for everyone,” went momma’s prayer.
Back when we lost Abattoir Andy and Sheriff Steve in the same day, some among us, Momma included, got to thinking that foul play was at hand. “Perhaps some of the local exploitative types were seeking to cover up malicious intent with cases of the sickness,” was momma’s suggestion. I couldn’t see it that way. Few could lift Andy’s hammer but Andy. And Sheriff Steve, folks used to say, slept with his nickel-plated revolver beside him on the end table since coming home from the wars. He slept with his black automatic held to his heart too, practically sitting straight up on all them pillows. Momma said the man’s eyes closed occasionally like all men under god, but that Sheriff Steve could see in other ways. That’s why he spent hard nights screaming and talked softly in the day, and no more than he had to.
Toward the end there, when few of us were left living to realize our touch and breath carried Suicide Sickness. It’s when the gloom hastened the final quitting for so many more in Bone Corner. Those who’d avoided the germs at first, murdered themselves anyway. That’s when they came to know Doc Bonner’s variant meant the sickness had finally come for the children.
Doc was found cut like he was bleeding his self. He had that knowledge and may have been working for a more ancient treatment for Suicide Sickness. -just cut too deep. Anyway, that’s what town folks said around quiet meals behind closed doors. I think it was his daughter going the way she did that turned Doc’s heart toward its dark corner.
She was a Bonner. She was beautiful. And she had the world before her in a town of her great-grand-daddy’s founding. When she walked Main Street, folks stopping just to see her pass, they couldn’t help but look, barely fifteen but beautiful beyond.
—that day they thought she was holding a sparkler.
It looked like a sparkler and the Bonners were always a people eager to celebrate. She carried that stick of dynamite in two hands up to the café porch like it was Sunday mass. She smiled through the glass panes in the door, according to Mr. Townsend, who ran the place. Then she was gone. She misted the walls pink, blew in all the glass, and left behind a scorched circle, a burnt-halo some called it, that you can see on Main Street right now.
Children hanging by their necks from white fences, their bottoms three inches off the dirt, their legs stretched out before them so we knew they could have stood up if only they were so inclined… If Bonner City were founded near a dark lake or a deep canyon, maybe the immune among us would have been spared the unspeakable sight of them who pursued self-demise and found it every time. We wouldn’t have turned from every fence row between the school and the church if all those little bodies lay quiet in a canyon or covered over by dark water.
But I suspect it’s over now.
Mother went in her sleep. She endured no harm but that caused by time.
I still buried her extra deep and burned the bedsheets to be sure.
Now it’s down to me. I don’t venture to the store, nor to what was the café, not anymore. I do ride up some nights. Ride up to the stony hills above town. I see lights on sometimes. Lonely lights, second floor kind of lights. Always behind shadowy curtains. But then the wind shifts, and the smell comes. Sweet smelling, people don’t mention that. After a great dying off, when some are left unburned and above ground to putrefy—
it’s nauseating, sure—but it’s sweet too. When it hits me and I’m gagging all alone, that’s when I turn around and head for home. I’ll go down there eventually—but not until the smell dries up and those last few upstairs lights go out for good.
Was it the elliptical wing of the marine spitfire that gave the edge against other fighter plane? Why has no major aircraft-manufacturing power tried to emulate its most iconic feature?
KInda, but not really. It was a very good dogfighter at the time but it wasn’t the absolute best. The Zero could outturn a Spitfire handily, so much so that Spitfire pilots had to stop engaging Japanese fighters in dogfights. Similarly, the newer Fw 190 wasn’t an easy opponent either. It was effectively evenly-matched with the Bf 109 as long as both were roughly from the same year.
And you might notice that some marks of the Spitfire had their tip clipped and ailerons modified:
This was done to improve roll rates and I’ve also heard it made production easier.
The main issue with Spitfire’s wings is that they’re the absolute worst to mass produce short of having something asymmetrical or exotic (like the outer wing being wider than the inner):
It tapers at it goes out, but not in a linear fashion like in airplanes such as the Bf 109. They also incorporate washout, where the angle of the inner part is different from the outer part. This is also called a twist.
Compared to the “flat” and simple wings of the Hurricane, the Spitfire took a better-trained workforce more hours to make. This was why the Hurricane was the most common type during the Battle of Britain and some time after.
And as it turned out, you don’t need elliptical wings to make a formidable dogfighter. The Hellcat could confidently turn with the Zero despite it being largely based on the older Wildcat with rectangular wings:
After the war, most military airplanes went way faster with jet engines and the swept and delta wings became far more important in order for them to reach higher speeds. Slower airplanes became increasingly complemented and even replaced by helicopters. So, you’re left with transports that don’t need the kind of maneuverability the Spitfire has or basic trainers that emphasize safety and easy handling above all else. There is no need for elliptical wings.
kool and the gang ladies night
Why do some Europeans think that ancient Egyptians are less advanced than Muslims and Romans?
Hello, Danial #705!
How do you bridge a gap or a void, for instance in a wall or between two walls?
This is how the Egyptians did it:
This is a post and lintel design. While polished and smooth, it’s technically and architecturally no different from this:
The problem here is that the lintel or beam cannot support much load above it, and cannot gap wide spaces. This is why in the Great Pyramid, they had to relieve the weight above with the blocks forming a chevron above the lintels of the entrance corridor:
Had they not done that, the tunnel would have collapsed before it was finished. The same technique was used above the King’s Chamber.
If the ancient Egyptians really stretched it, they could do something like this:
That’s the Grand Gallery of the Great Pyramid at Giza. It is a false arch, aka corbelled arch: basically, each layer of stone is projected inwards until the top is so narrow it can be bridged with a lintel at the top.
So what about Romans and Muslims?
This is the Pantheon in Rome, a 2nd century Roman temple with a rotunda with a concrete dome!
And this is the arches in the Great Mosque in Cordoba, which does not only have proper arches, but also vaulted ceilings.
And this is Hagia Sophia, originally a Roman basilica and later converted into a mosque after Constantinople became Istanbul.
The open spaces under the vaults in the Great Mosque or the Pantheon or Hagia Sofia would be impossible to make using ancient Egyptian technology. Those are examples of architectural technologies which the ancient Egyptians could not even dream about.
And it’s no surprise, really – they were created millennia later than the Temple in Luxor and the Great Pyramid in Giza. In fact, a Roman with an iPhone in the newly-built Pantheon would be less anachronistic and more realistic than a Pantheon-like dome in the Great Pyramid.
Pictures
The Mysterious Roman Dodecahedrons: What the Heck Are These Things?
One of the most enigmatic and unusual type of artifact to be recovered from ancient times, the Roman dodecahedron is a small, hollow object made of bronze or (more rarely) stone, with a geometrical shape that has 12 flat faces. Each face is a pentagon (a five-sided figure), embellished with a series of knobs on each corner point of the pentagons, and the pentagon faces in most cases contain circular holes as well.
The first of these enigmatic objects was unearthed in 1739, in a field in the English countryside alongside a collection of ancient Roman coins. It was presented to the Society of Antiquaries in London in that year, and no one had any idea about what it represented or how it might have been used.
Since that original discovery, more than 100 similar objects have since been found at archaeological sites in northern Europe, in Great Britain, Belgium, Germany, France, Luxembourg, Netherlands, Austria, Switzerland, and Hungary. They have all been dated to the first through the fifth centuries AD, although most were made in the second and third centuries. Ranging from golf-ball-sized to baseball-sized, each has 12 equal faces with holes of varying diameter. The objects themselves are hollow, making them rather light-weighted.
Dodecahedron means “12 faces” in Greek. These strange objects are on display in dozens of museums and archaeological collections throughout Europe, with explanatory labels that are almost devoid of any specific inforamation, since the origin and purpose of the objects has still not been determined—although there are dozens of theories about that, as might be imagined.
An incomplete cast copper alloy dodecahedron (1 – 400 AD), discovered by a metal detectorist in Yorkshire, England. (Portable Antiquities Scheme/CC BY SA)
What Were Roman Dodecahedra Used For?
The great mystery is: how do they work and what do they do? Unfortunately, there is no documentation or notes about them from the time of their creation, so the function of the dodecahedra has not been determined. Nevertheless, many theories and speculations have been put forward over the centuries: candlestick holders (wax was found inside one example), dice, survey instruments, devices for determining the optimal sowing date for winter grain, gauges to calibrate water pipes or standard army bases, staff or scepter decorations, a toy to throw and catch on a stick, or simply a geometric sculpture. Among these speculations, some deserve attention.
A popular hypothesis these days for the purpose of the dodecahedra is that they were used as knitting tools to make gloves. Whether it solves the mystery or not, the YouTube video by Martin Hallett, who tested his idea with a 3D printed replica of a Roman dodecahedron and some experimental archaeology, has inspired others to try out this knitting method to make their own hand warmers. This idea could explain the different sizes of the dodecahedra – making gloves of different sizes – and the purpose of the holes – to form the glove’s fingers.
However, one of the most accepted theories is that the Roman dodecahedron was used as a measuring device, more precisely as a range measuring object on the battlefield. The hypothesis is that the dodecahedron was used for calculating the trajectories of projectiles. This could explain the different sized holes in the pentagrams.
A similar theory involves dodecahedra as a surveying and levelling device. However, neither of these theories has been supported by any proof and exactly how the dodecahedron could be used for these purposes has not been fully explained.
Dodecahedron from the region of Stuttgart; 2nd to 3rd Century, shown at the Württembergisches Landesmuseum, Stuttgart, Germany; Approximately 60 such dodecahedra from this region and time are known, however their function is not clear. (Anagoria/CC BY 3.0)
Or Maybe They Were Astronomical Tools, Religious Relics or Toys?
One of the more interesting theories is the proposal that dodecahedra were astronomic measuring instruments for determining the optimal sowing date for winter grain. According to G.M.C. Wagemans , “the dodecahedron was an astronomic measuring instrument with which the angle of the sunlight can be measured and thereby one specific date in springtime, and one date in the autumn can be determined with accuracy. The dates that can be measured were probably of importance for the agriculture”.
Nevertheless, opponents of this theory have pointed out that use as a measuring instrument of any kind seems to be prohibited by the fact that the dodecahedra were not standardized and come in many sizes and arrangements.
A Roman dodecahedron found in Bonn, Germany. (Hadley Paul Garland/CC BY SA 2.0)
Another unproven theory claims that the dodecahedra are religious relics, once used as sacred tools for the druids of Britannia and Caledonia. However, there is no written account or archaeological evidence to support this view. Could it be that this strange item was simply a toy or a recreational game for legionnaires, during the war campaigns?
Some sources suggest they were the central objects in a bowl game similar to that of our days, with these artifacts used as markers and the players throwing stones to land them in the holes within the dodecahedra.
Two ancient Roman bronze dodecahedrons and an icosahedron (3rd c. AD) in the Rheinisches Landesmuseum in Bonn, Germany. The dodecahedrons were excavated in Bonn and Frechen-Bachem; the icosahedron in Arloff. (CC BY SA 4.0)
A Roman Icosahedron Adds to the Mystery
Another discovery deepens the mystery about the function of these objects. Some time ago, Benno Artmann discovered a Roman icosahedron (a polyhedron with 20 faces), misclassified as a dodecahedron on just a superficial glance, and put away in a museum’s basement storage. The discovery raises the question about whether there are many other geometric artifacts of different types – such as, icosahedra, hexagons, octagons – yet to be found in what was once the significant Roman Empire.
The Roman icosahedron found by Benno Artmann. (georgehart.com)
Despite the many unanswered questions, one thing is certain, the Roman dodecahedra were highly valued by their owners. This is evidenced by the fact that a number of them were found among treasure hoards, with coins and other valuable items. We may never know the true purpose of the Roman dodecahedra, but we can only hope that advances in archaeology will unearth more clues that will help solve this ancient enigma.
Top Image: A structural replica of the Roman dodecahedron from the Schwarzenacker Roman Museum in Homburg, Germany.
Source: Lokilech/CC BY-SA 3.0.
The United States is in full collapse
The One True Conspiracy
Written in response to: “Center your story around a person who believes they’re the last human on Earth.“
Joseph Ellis
And that isn’t a great feeling, being alone. Sometimes I felt too real for people in the real world, but not real enough for my online compatriots. Or maybe the other way around. Or maybe both.
Then I hit on something. It came to me in a dream. I was at the base of a hill, and on top of the hill was a shining point of light. I staggered up the hill, tripped and fell multiple times. If I could just reach that light, I’d realize some greater truth, but I couldn’t get there. When I woke up, the strangest thought was stuck in my head: there was only one light.
I thought about that all day at the office. But it wasn’t until the drive home it struck me what it meant: there is only one true conspiracy theory. Of course! The others must be pure distractions. But which one is the true one? I won’t leave you in suspense but I figured it out: I’m the only person on earth. Everything around me is a simulation. Perhaps the prompt spoiled the reveal anyway.
This idea explains all the mysteries and inconsistencies in the world. Why does the world make no sense? Because it’s an imperfect simulation. Why does everyone else act so irrationally? Because they aren’t real. Why can’t even conspiracy-minded people fashion a comprehensive model of the world? Because they’re part of the deception. Obviously, this isn’t an original idea, there’s no shortage of media using this concept. But that’s the whole point, the true conspiracy is hiding among all the fake ones, making it appear no different.
I wasn’t certain at first, but within days of watching the world from this new perspective, my confidence only grew. I found myself smiling, and catching the eyes of people on the street. Some looked at me with fear, others with amusement, still others in a heartfelt way.
I started mentioning my name to various people to see how they’d react, to see if they knew that I was the only real human among them. Some smiled back at me, others had their eyes grow wide in fear. Most froze and appeared confused, like inert sections of computer code. A euphoria I’d never known became my companion during these days. I finally knew my place in the world.
But the feeling didn’t last. Yes, I know the truth now, but knowing is only half the battle. The other half is using that knowledge in a useful way. If no one is real, who can I talk to? If nothing is real, where can I go? I could talk to “people” on the street or on the internet all day and get nowhere, except a possible trip to the looney bin.
Surely somewhere exists an outlet, a way to make myself heard outside the false world surrounding me. Enter Google. Into the search bar I type: “I am the only human on earth.”
I hesitate. Something is wrong with this statement. I was not always the only person on earth. In youth, the world made so much more sense. People seemed real. I delete and try again: “I am the last human on earth.” Maybe somewhere out there are other people, on some other planet or other reality. Maybe I can reach them! I click through to start the search.
I am immediately disappointed. The first set of links are disaster movie clips. Then come some “what would you do if” thought experiments. There’s even a link to a conspiracy site I’m already a member of. Useless. Not a single true outlet or prospective solution to this riddle. I lackadaisically click the “next” button for more results, my hopes in the toilet.
And then something interesting, the next link is to a short story contest bearing the prompt “Center your story around a person who believes they’re the last human on Earth.” The contest is for this week only, and just started yesterday. Can this be a coincidence? If you’ve read this far, you know I don’t believe that.
I haven’t written a story since… grade school? And I was never good at it. Why invent fiction when the world is such a strange place? But I wouldn’t have to invent anything for this, I could just tell the truth.
My heart runs cold: maybe it’s a trap! Maybe whoever is running this simulation left this contest as a way of finding me, to route out the last human!
But the idea is in my brain now. I can’t be stopped! I searched around the site: fifty entries already? It’s only been a day. Some of these writers are quite eager. But this would mean my story wouldn’t even stand out. How would they know that I’m the last true human hidden in a forest of people writing similar stories?
I could even label it as fiction! Speculative fiction or science fiction or something like. I’ll even add the “funny” tag to throw off suspicion. If the Men in Black appear at my door bearing tough questions, I’ll just pretend to be a creative type. I can appear quite normal when I want to.
So if you’re reading this (and let’s face it, you are) and you’re a human too, know that you’re not alone out there. And if you’re just a cog in a greater simulation, you probably don’t know it, so just assume you’re a real human and that you’re also not alone. The full truth is waiting for us to discover.
What Police Found Beneath the Concrete Floor Left Investigators Stunned
WTF?
Holy Shit!
Why do Chinese people eat rice with chopsticks, when eating with a spoon is easier? 94 more answers
·
That’s because you’re doing it wrong.
Here’s how the typical novice eats rice with chopsticks:
It’s not wrong per se, but terribly inefficient and takes a lot of skill and practice to do it right. If you can do this without dropping rice all over your freshly pressed shirt, well, more power to you.
Here’s how we do it when no one’s watching:
That’s right. You bring the bowl up and, with your handy pair of chopsticks, push the rice into your mouth. You can easily polish off a whole bowl in under a minute with this mysterious and ancient technique.
In the words of the Matrix, there is no spoon. There is only bowl.
Star Trek Voyager – Organ Thieves | Clip
Parking spaces
In London, parking spaces sell for over 250,000 euros, so naturally, protecting your space or parking rights is an important matter.
When I got home, I discovered that someone had parked their Porsche 911 in my parking space.
The conversation unfolded as follows:
Me: “This is my parking space, can you move your car?”
Him: “Not really. I used to live on this street and I know you don’t actually own your parking spaces, so I’m going to park here from now on. The police won’t do anything because it’s a private street.”
Me: “Okay, we’ll do this the hard way then.”
I parked my motorcycle about 15 centimeters from its rear bumper, engaged the disc lock, put a huge chain around the rear wheel, and activated the alarm and immobilizer. Then I went back inside the house.
A few hours later, there was a knock at my front door:
The lackey: “My boss has to go out, would you mind moving your motorcycle?”
Me: “Of course, no problem.”
A long, truly uncomfortable silence followed as I stared at him and he began to shift his weight from one foot to the other.
The lackey: “Can you move it now?”
Me: “No.”
Him: “When can you move it?”
Me: “Wednesday.”
Him: “Wednesday?”
Me: “Yes, Wednesday. That’s when I’ll be using my motorcycle again. It would be a good time for him to move his car.”
Him: “He’s going to call the police.”
Me: “He can do it, yes, but, as he said, it’s a private road and they don’t care. He’ll have to wait until Wednesday to get it out. And, if using his car is important to him, he’d be better off parking somewhere else in the future.”
I waited until Wednesday to move my motorcycle and let it out.
He moved the car.
And never parked there again.
And everyone lived happily ever after…
This is so “real”.
Jalapeño Stuffed Green Peppers
Ingredients
- 6 large green bell peppers
- 1 pound ground beef
- 1 envelope taco seasoning or 2 tablespoons Taco Seasoning
- 3/4 cup water
- 1 tablespoon chopped jalapeño peppers, or more to taste
- 1 cup cooked white rice
- 2 cups Mexican blend cheese, or more, divided
- Mild or hot salsa, to taste, divided
Instructions
- Cut a thin slice from stem side of bell peppers. Remove seeds and membranes. Rinse and cook in boiling water for 5 minutes. Make sure water covers peppers.
- Brown ground beef; drain if necessary.
- Add taco seasoning and water. Simmer until water cooks down.
- Remove from heat; stir in jalapeño peppers, rice, 1 1/4 cups cheese and 1/4 cup salsa.
- Stuff peppers, standing upright in an ungreased, glass baking dish.
- Top each pepper with 1 tablespoon salsa.
- Cover with aluminum foil and bake at 350 degrees F for 45 minutes.
- Uncover and bake 15 minutes longer.
- Top with remaining cheese.
What do people think about the proposed new “Trump Folly” class of battleships? 24 more answers
·
Although Trump considers himself an expert on everything, he has ZERO experience in naval architecture and dodged military service with a fake bone spur. There are probably few people on the planet less capable of designing a new class of anything.
There is a class of ships that would be suitable for naming the “Trump Class”. However, I am against even that, because I prefer that we erase all records of his presence on the planet.
Previously known as the “Islip Garbage Barge”, it was towed around the world seeking a place to be dumped until it was finally returned to the place where it started and sat for years while they figured out a better way to dispose of their trash than dumping it somewhere else.
The one suggestion I could agree with is the naming of a new law or even a Constitutional Amendment that specifically stated that the President of the United States is subject to all laws and regulations as a citizen equal to all other citizens, with absolutely no privilege or advantage over any other citizen with regard to the justice system, enforcement, and penalties for unlawful behavior.
It could be called the “Criminal Trump Corruption Act of 2026″.
Cops Discover House With 3 Little Kids Murdered
At this point… I don’t even know what to say…
After cancelling the failed attempt to copy a 20 yr old Italian frigate, the US Navy has embarked on yet another highly ambitious development project for a new frigate to combat the “rising threat of communist China in the Pacific”: they’re going to steal ships from the US Coast Guard.
They even made a little cinematic announcement trailer:
—
No, this is not a joke. This is not a meme. This is not AI slop.
This is real. The real US Navy is going to copy a 4000-ton patrol ship from the mfking Coast Guard in order to fight China.
And no, this “new” ship isn’t just meant to patrol US home waters or other low-intensity operations. This is meant to be a frontline combat warship (which is what frigates are). Even if it isn’t meant to fight the PLAN directly like the Constellation was, it still has to deal with the likes of the Houthis, for which it lacks any relevant weaponry as you will see.
And it’s not as if it’s a small little corvette. It has the same tonnage as the PLAN’s Type 054A, roughly 4000 tons:
PLAN’s ubiquitous Type 054A frigate, 37 in active service
The difference is that the 054A has a 32-cell VLS battery capable of carrying hypersonic anti-ship missiles and long-range air defense SAMs. It’s also got a proper 76mm autocannon and 2X 30mm CIWS. AKA, all the proper weapons that a modern naval frigate is expected to have.
The Legend-class cutter that the US Navy wants to adopt has none of these weapons. The biggest weapon on board is a 57mm autocannon. It doesn’t have a single missile launcher. This thing is even more lightly armed than the much smaller LCS (Little Crappy Ship).
Here’s a comparison of the weapons and equipment carried by the two frigates:
The US Navy has already made it clear that they intend to adopt the Legend-class cutter (now frigate) with the absolute minimum number of changes (supposedly taking a lesson from the failure of the Constellation program).
In short, it will have none of the combat features expected on modern frigates, or even frigates from the Cold War. I did some research just to make sure, and I can confirm that the Legend will be the most lightly-armed frigate ever to be adopted by any navy since 1914.
I genuinely do not know wtf the US Navy thinks this ship will be good for. They claim that it can do LCS stuff like patrol the Red Sea or other lower intensity conflict areas, but with only 2X 20mm CIWS and not a single SAM launcher, I don’t see how this thing can shoot down anything larger than a small FPV drone, never mind an actual ship-killer missile headed for some oil tanker.
Traditionally, the primary mission of a frigate is to defend the fleet from submarines. This is why they’re small, light and fast. The Legend has a small sonar meant to detect seamines, and not much else, which will make this the first naval frigate to be more afraid of submarines than submarines will be afraid of it.
—
FAILED ASSIGNMENT, SUBMITTED LATE
But the best part is that despite literally just stealing a ship design from the Coast Guard, the US Navy is targeting the end of 2028 for the first launch.
By 2028, China will have already moved on Taiwan. That’s based on the US Navy’s own assessment that China will attack Taiwan by 2027. So, in other words, this program to rush a new frigate into service will still miss the most important deadline of the US Navy.
KC and the Sunshine Band – Get down tonight – Reaction
LOL. Calm down girrrrl.
When someone calls on another for a welfare check, is this police doing duty as officers or does it just cause trouble for the person in question? Do officers have to respond or can they choose to ignore cases that do not warrant their intervention?
One overnight shift about 2am, dispatch made me aware of a call from a man in Texas complaining that his ex-wife did not answer her phone the day before when he attempted several times to get in touch with him. The man said he was concerned something may have happened to her and their kids. Before I headed that way, I looked up the history to this address, and I discovered that this man had made this same complaint six times in the last two months. It was always on school nights. And yes, he called dispatch each time in the middle of the night. Each one of these times, a police officer rang the doorbell and woke this lady and her kids up and gave news to the man everything was 10–4.
I arrived at the residence but did NOT ring the doorbell. I noticed the vehicle was in the driveway with no signs of foul play. I checked the front door and found it shut and locked. I went around the home and checked to make sure the back door and ground level windows were secure. With no outward concerns, I told dispatch that I did not wake up the family but made sure the home was secure. I asked if dayshift officers would make contact with the female home owner later that morning.
A few minutes later, dispatch called and told me that the man in Texas demanded to speak to me. I called him through a dispatch line and he was furious. He asked me why I didn’t make contact with his ex. I asked him why didn’t he call us at a more reasonable time. I then told him that I was not going to be a tool of his harassment toward his family. He then shot back that his family could be dead inside the house and I didn’t care. I replied that if his family was indeed dead inside the house, they’d still be dead in the morning when dayshift officers checked up on them. A few expletives were uttered by him and he hung up.
I contacted my sergeant right after the call and gave him a heads up that the man may be filing a complaint against me. He told me not to worry about it and that I had made the right decision.
If I got a bunch of equipment and dug a lake, then filled it with water, and left it for five years, would fish be in the lake when I returned?
This pond is located just east of Brooklyn, MI.
My parents bought 28 acres in 1963 and built the house where the red arrow is, moving in the fall of 1965. In 1967 the 4 acres of swamp that was to the north of the house was dug out to form the pond that you see in the picture.
My dad hired a guy with an excavator that looked something like this
I would have been about 11 years old at the time. The excavator went out on big wooden cants to keep it from sinking into the marshy earth. The guy running it let me “operate” it for a few minutes! All the swampy earth was dumped to form it into the peninsula you can see to the right of the picture. There was a creek that flowed into the swamp and after the excavation was completed the creek flowed in one side and out the other. The pond also had some springs flowing into it.
Awhile after the pond was done my dad had it stocked with 2″-4″ rainbow trout fingerlings. 18 or so months later we were catching pan size fryers.
However, this didn’t last. Apparently the water flowing into the pond was not sufficient in either volume or speed so the trout could not spawn, so they didn’t last. However, apparently there was sufficient water inflow or birds or whatever that eventually we had a very nice population of large mouth bass, blue gills, sunfish, and perch. We even caught a pike on a couple occasions.
So to answer the question…yes, that is quite possible, maybe even less than 5 years…if you have fresh water flowing in and out. A stagnant hole in the ground, probably not.
Cat and owner reunite 10 months after Palisades Fire