PHONK is super-popular in China.
You cannot go a half hour without hearing this tune…
02:20 DVRST – CLOSE EYES
I often wonder what a “PHONK” song is. I mean, I know “Trance”, and “Country & Western”, and “Jazz”. But PHONK?
So I asked QWen 2.5.
Qwen2.5-Max
“Phonk” is a subgenre of music that blends elements of hip-hop, Memphis rap, and electronic dance music. It originated in the 1990s in Memphis, Tennessee, but has seen a resurgence in recent years, particularly among internet communities and on platforms like YouTube, SoundCloud, and TikTok.
Key Characteristics of Phonk:
- Slowed and Chopped Beats : One of the most distinctive features of phonk is its use of slowed-down and chopped-up samples from older songs, often funk, soul, or R&B tracks. This technique gives the music a smooth, laid-back vibe.
- Heavy Use of 808s : Deep, booming basslines (often created with 808 drum machines) are a staple of phonk, giving the tracks a heavy, hypnotic feel.
- Melancholic or Lo-fi Aesthetic : Phonk often has a moody, nostalgic, or lo-fi sound. The production can be intentionally rough or grainy, which adds to its underground, raw appeal.
- Vocal Samples : Phonk frequently incorporates vocal samples from old Memphis rap tracks or other sources, often pitched down or altered to fit the slower tempo.
- Dark or Surreal Themes : Lyrically, phonk can explore themes of street life, introspection, or even surreal, dreamlike imagery. The overall mood is often dark, mysterious, or atmospheric.
- Influence of Trap Music : Phonk shares many similarities with trap music, especially in terms of its rhythmic structure and use of hi-hats and snares. However, phonk tends to be more sample-heavy and less focused on mainstream appeal.
Origins:
Phonk’s roots trace back to the Memphis rap scene of the 1990s, with artists like DJ Paul , Lord Infamous , and Three 6 Mafia playing a significant role in shaping the sound. Producers like Tommy Wright III and DJ Spanish Fly were also instrumental in creating the early phonk sound by using drum machines and samplers to create dark, gritty beats.
Modern Resurgence:
In recent years, phonk has gained popularity through online platforms, particularly among younger audiences who enjoy its nostalgic, lo-fi aesthetic. Many modern phonk producers create tracks that pay homage to the original Memphis sound while incorporating contemporary elements. Artists like Soudiere , PlayboyCarti , and Ugly God have been associated with the modern phonk movement.
Popular Phonk Tracks:
- “Who Run It” by Three 6 Mafia
- “Late Night” by Soudiere
- “Porsche” by Playboi Carti (often associated with phonk due to its vibe)
Phonk and Internet Culture:
Phonk has become closely tied to internet culture, especially on platforms like YouTube and TikTok, where users create videos set to phonk music. The genre’s moody, atmospheric sound makes it a popular choice for background music in memes, gaming videos, and other forms of digital content.
In summary, phonk is a genre that combines the raw, underground energy of Memphis rap with modern production techniques, resulting in a unique, nostalgic, and often dark sound. Its resurgence on the internet has helped it gain a new generation of fans.
…
So guys, here we can play with this “new” kind of music, and so I offer one of the videos that was recommended above…
…it’s not for everyone. But maybe some of you all might appreciate this.
Phonk Music 2023 🔥 Aggressive Drift Phonk 🔥 Фонка (MIDNIGHT/Sahara/NEON BLADE/Close Eyes)
Today…
I got a notice from Social Security
Says:
"75 million Americans will receive a 2.8 percent increase in their Social Security benefits and Supplemental Security Income (SSI) payments in 2026."
Well…
Prices of basics milk, eggs, bread, and rent all all up 20% to 40%, and us retirees get a 2.8% increase.
That’s the USA for ya.
What were the popular vacation destinations for citizens of the Soviet Union?
The Black Sea coast was probably the most visited destination, followed by the Azov Sea coast. The Azov Sea was warmer but full of jellyfish in the summer. They weren’t poisonous, just annoying. Remember, Soviet citizens swam in the sea, not in a swimming pool next to the sea. To this day I don’t understand why my fellow Americans in tropical destination sit in a pool full of chlorine just a few feet away from the ocean and never take a swim in the salty waters of the Atlantic or the Pacific, or even the Carribean.
As a kid, I went to the town of Feodosia on the Crimean Peninsula almost every year, for the entire month of my mom’s PTO. We didn’t have the package deals to sanatoriums (glorified hotels with some spa services), so we did the AirBnb of the 1980s. Basically, we got a train ticket from Moscow to Feodosia. Upon getting off the train, we were met my a bunch of people with pics and descriptions of vacation rentals. After talking to them, asking some questions about the location, amenities etc., negotiating the price, we’d either follow the host on foot or get in their car (a rarity), and head over to the place.
Those places were not really houses or apartments. They were mainly “vremyanki” or “temporaries.” The laws against owning private property were kind of loose away from major cities, so people in small southern towns often had their own house and acrose the way from it a row of these “temporaries” – tiny shacks, each having a couple of single beds and a lightbulb, maybe a couple of chairs and something to hang your jacket on. No AC, no bathroom, no kitchen. Bathrooms were outhouses just outside, stinky and dirty as hell. Some had a semi-covered outdoor kitchen with pots and pans for communal use.
But that didn’t matter, because we didn’t spend much time at home. Most of the day was dedicated to the beach: arrive mid-morning, swim, sunbathe, have some food and treats, rinse and repeat, depart at sunset. In the evening we would stop by the place, change, and head out on the town, get dinner, see a movie, stroll through a museum, or visit whatever entertainment venue for kids would be around. I recall that in Feodosia you could rent the little cars with pedals or similarly made horses to ride around the main park.
Shower, you ask? No, there was no such luxury. Swimming in the ocean served as bathing, I guess. One could visit a public bath house, but I was too young.
Doesn’t sounds like a whole lot of fun, but as a kid growing up in a fairly harsh climate, I enjoyed those trips. Here are some pics of the town:
Brace For A Shortage Of Everything That Will Freak Americans Out
Yeah. Prepare. Starving and hungry people are like crack addicts. Things are going to get dangerous.
MM readership: WATCH this full movie.
As a reminder
What was the biggest lie you caught in an interview?
I once worked as a Director of Training developing training programs for technical staff and clients that bought our materials to train their employees. It’s work that requires both technical knowledge and knowledge of how to design training programs (Instructional Design).
We were interviewing for a new person to add to the team, and my Senior ID passed me over a candidate that he really liked. This guy who worked for me was very sharp, and usually my interview was only a formality.
But just because it was only for show didn’t mean I wouldn’t ask appropriate questions. I wouldn’t want anyone who worked for me to think I was a lightweight or a figurehead. And I do want to know the answers.
So I’m going along, asking questions about his experience and how he think he would fit in the team, and then I asked:
“What design framework do you use?”
“What?” he said, clearly startled.
“What Instructional Design framework do you use?” I repeated.
“Ah, I don’t really use a framework. I just sit down and design,” he stuttered.
Now, if you have worked in ID at all, you know that there are several formal frameworks that ID takes place in. ADDIE (Analysis, Design, Development, Implementation, and Evaluation), Agile, SAM (Successive Approximation Model). I don’t know how you work for years in the field and haven’t at least been exposed to them. He couldn’t even name one.
He did not get the job. I don’t even know how he got past the Senior ID.
Fortunately, the next candidate was just brilliant. I hired him immediately. Not only was he crack at his job, he was drama-free. You just gave him work, and the results appeared. I wish I could have hired ten of him. The Senior ID wasn’t happy to have been overridden, until he saw how his second choice performed.
If you are going to interview for a job that requires certain skills, be sure you have them, or at least can talk the talk.
School Bullies Don’t Know the New Transfer is a Brutal Fighter
What “old person” things do you do?
I’m fifty. And I regularly do the following:
I spend ten minutes looking for the reading glasses which have been on top of my head the whole while.
I use phrases like ‘If I had my druthers…’
I covet comfortable shoes.
I make lots of noises, especially when getting up. ‘Ow argh ow akh aah.’
I say stupid things to young people, like ‘Oh, you’ve got all this to come,’ and ‘One day, you’ll know what I mean.’
But this next one is by far the most prevalent:
‘I bought one of those things…whaddya call them? You know, the doohickeys…that you use to flip? YOU KNOW…with the handle…aargh…the THINGY!
‘You mean Spatula?’
‘That’s the one!’
Bold Firehouse Sausage Creole Macaroni
Delicious one-pot Bold Firehouse Sausage Creole Macaroni delivers on flavor and heartiness; your family will love the Creole flavors.
Prep: 15 min | Total: 25 min | Yield: 5 servings
Ingredients
- 1 pound cooked pork Andouille sausage, sliced into 1/2-inch pieces
- 2 3/4 cups hot water
- 1 (6.1 ounce) box Hamburger Helper™ Bold Firehouse Chili Macaroni
- 1 (14 1/2 ounce) can diced tomatoes, drained
- 1/2 cup chopped onion
- 1/2 cup chopped celery
- 1/2 cup chopped green bell pepper
Instructions
- In 10 inch skillet, brown sausage over medium-high heat for 3 to 5 minutes, stirring occasionally, until starting to brown.
- Stir in hot water, uncooked pasta and sauce mix (from Hamburger Helper box), tomatoes, onions, peppers and celery. Heat to boiling, stirring occasionally.
- Reduce heat; cover and simmer for 5 minutes, stirring occasionally.
- Remove from heat; uncover (sauce will thicken as it stands).
- Stir before serving.
Nutrition
Per serving: Calories 310 Calories from Fat 100 Total Fat 11g 16% Saturated Fat 3g 16% Trans Fat 0g 0% Cholesterol 70mg 24% Sodium 1400mg 59% Total Carbohydrate 32g 11% Dietary Fiber 3g 13% Sugars 4g 4% Protein 21g 21%
% Daily Value*: Vitamin A 10% Vitamin C 10% Calcium 2% Iron 15%
Exchanges:1 Starch; 0 Fruit; 1 Other Carbohydrate; 0 Skim Milk; 0 Low-Fat Milk; 0 Milk; 1 Vegetable; 0 Very Lean Meat; 2 Lean Meat; 0 High-Fat Meat; 1 Fat
* Percent Daily Values are based on a 2,000 calorie diet.
How will the export restrictions imposed by the U.S. Department of Commerce on Chinese entities affect Huawei’s operations?
5 years ago, Trump threw the kitchen sink at Huawei. It had the pride of place in the US entity list. He could not tolerate Huawei’s leadership in 5G communications, a Chinese company leading such an important and critical technology. He commandeered the entire Collective West to boycott it.
But Huawei’s 5G business thrives and expands. China’s market is huge. It has now over 4.25 million 5G base stations that cover the entire country. Huawei is gaining customers and market share everywhere, sans the Collective West. Even here, countries are dragging their feet to remove Huawei from their systems. Huawei accounts for about 70% of the global 5G equipment and devices. It is upgrading its system to 5.5G and progressing to 6G. It holds the most number of patents in these technologies.
But its smartphone was severely hit, and only started to recover in 2023, with the launch of Mate 60 in August.
It was denied access to high-end chips and subjected to other sanctions. It divested its Honor brand so that it could avoid the sanctions. The Huawei brand was catching up on Apple. The blacklist by the US floored it, but it was not a knocked out punch. Huawei took 4 years to recover, suffered 4 years of lost growth.
It has now its own operating system – HarmonyOS, being replaced by HarmonyOS NEXT, launched in October 2024, breaks through to high-end chips, a strong supply-chain to claim its Mate 70, launched in November 2024, was produced at near-100% localisation.
Its smartphone business is now back on the fast-track. The launch of Mate 60 in August 2023 was followed by Pura 70 in April 2024, Mate XT in September 2024, and Mate 70 in November 2024. In 2024, it shipped 46 million units, its market share in China rebounded to 16%, surpassed Apple, and ranked 2nd to Vivo.
There are reports that its 7nm chips made by SMIC have low yields. This may not be for long. It has a laser-induced EUV machine under test in its Dongguan facility that may go into trial production in 3Q25, and commercial production in 2026.
No Body Wants to Work Anymore
Submitted into Contest #288 in response to: Set your story during — or just before — a storm.… view prompt
Joshua G. J. Insole
This story contains themes or mentions of physical violence, gore, or abuse.
It was shoddy work. But Victor had done it in half the time Igor would have taken. Why did it take him so long to do this basic stuff? Whatever, it didn’t matter. The creature was ready, and the storm was here. It was time to take his place as the most outstanding scientist ever and give life to the inanimate. Victor pulled two cables from the lightning conductor at the head of the platform. He snapped each one onto the creature’s neck bolts using their crocodile clips. Grinning, he patted the creature’s barrel-shaped chest. ‘Not long, my friend. Soon, soon.’
The lift involved thick ropes and pulleys intertwined around axles, shafts, and wheels.
Victor’s eyebrow rose, and he tapped his chin with a finger. The lift system had been Igor’s baby, like Victor’s creature. Before Igor quit, he should’ve asked for a training session or a how-to guide. But how could he, the world’s most brilliant mind, ask his underling to teach him? The idea was preposterous. He could figure this out. Victor traced the cables with his eyes. He untied the bottom rope and gave it a cursory tug.
The platform groaned and shifted.
He nodded and pulled a so-so face. ‘Seems simple enough.’
Lightning exploded in the bloated, black firmament. A few seconds later, thunder boomed. The lights went completely out and flickered back to life a moment later.
His heart thump-thumped in his chest as if someone had hooked him up to that great battery in the sky. Victor felt alive for the first time in his existence. It was now or never. He took the rope in both hands and pulled.
The platform lifted an inch.
Victor gasped. Good God, it was heavy! No wonder Igor had such thick arms, heaving this thing up and down all day and night. Victor – a lab-dwelling nerd if there ever was one – had never been one for physical labour. He preferred instead to exercise his mind. He wrapped the rope around his hands, locked his legs into an A-pose, and heaved.
The platform shuddered and rose in fits and starts. It swung from side to side as Victor’s uneven, unpracticed pulls jerked it back and forth.
Veins popped out on Victor’s temples, and his gums throbbed from clenching his teeth so tight. It was a good job he’d strapped the bugger down. Otherwise, the poor chap would have rolled off the edge like a sibling who claimed the top bunk. He gasped, and he wheezed, and he pulled, and he pulled.
The roof opened as the platform reached the ceiling, sliding apart to offer a slice of the sky. Rain gushed through, cascading over the platform and pattering on the grimy linoleum. Cold air snaked inside, snatching up papers and scattering them.
Goosebumps prickled up all over Victor’s skin, and it wasn’t only because of the chill. The strength in his arms waned, and he yanked harder, thankful for the breeze drying the sweat on his skin.
The platform rose, plugging the roof until the rain trickled through in only dribs and drabs.
With shaking, too-weak hands, Victor fell on the pulley and wrapped the rope around, tying it off. He held onto it for a moment longer, not trusting it. He let go and leapt backwards.
But the pulley system held, and the platform remained.
He laughed at his strength, as well as his ingenuity. He was pretty brilliant, wasn’t he? He leaned against the pulley’s central column for a breath to wait until the feeling came back into his limbs. Once he could stand without collapsing like a sheet after the ghost had fled, Victor set to his destiny.
Brilliant Science.
He ran around – giggling – flipping switches, pulling levers, hitting buttons, turning dials. And then, at last, he slapped the big red button.
The lights went out for good.
Victor stood in the dark, his chest rising and falling, his breaths filling the silence. He waited.
Lightning zapped a rain-drenched tree in the garden. Thunder boomed.
He waited.
Another brilliant flash. The thunder was a second away.
He waited, tongue dangling from his mouth, fingers dancing over the button’s surface.
Lightning struck.
Victor hit the button.
The strobing devices flared blue, bathing the lab in electricity. Ozone plumed into the atmosphere. The lightbulbs exploded as the power surged into them. The machinery awoke, growing from a bowel-rumbling growl to a supersonic whine. Sparks danced across the floor, kissing the puddles where the rainwater pooled. And, up on the roof, something flared brighter than the sun.
Victor cackled. ‘Live my child, LIVE!’
Overhead, lightning flashed once more. It boomed a little softer as the storm lumbered past like a bear who’d decided it could find better food elsewhere.
He struggled for air as the whole world around him held its breath. Hands quaking, he untied the rope and steadied himself against the platform’s weight. He let it slip through his fingers, inches at a time, whining under the strain.
The platform wobbled down from its place in the ceiling. Rainwater trickled through the gap but with less urgency than before.
Struggling to hold onto the rope, Victor wheezed. He squinted up at the platform.
The platform jerked as it descended due to Victor’s poor technique. But that wasn’t the only reason. Something up there was squirming, trying to wriggle free. A grotesque, green-hued hand burst free from its restraints. Broken bits of leather and metal linkage tinkled to the floor. The creature’s fist stood in stark relief against the backdrop of night, clenched in defiance of God.
Unfettered joy bloomed across Victor’s face. For a moment, he forgot all his worldly aches and pains. ‘IT’S ALI—’
Sudden lightning flashed – a last goodbye from the departing storm.
Victor yelped and flinched and let go of the rope.
The pulley system whirred to life without any resistance to hold it back. The ropes flew like breakdancing snakes, letting gravity finally have its say. The platform plummeted while the creature growled its inarticulate grievances with the world.
Victor tried to catch the rope but squealed and flew backwards as the hissing cord burned his hands.
The platform crashed to the lab floor, shattering into pieces. The coil-shaped conductor exploded, shards of still-sparking material spraying around the room. The shrapnel shattered glassware, sending sprays of coloured liquids splattering. The restraints popped open. The creature’s stitches snapped, unable to hold back the forces of physics. The creature burst open like a pinata filled with organs. The heart spurted free from the chest cavity – a fish through an amateur fisherman’s hands. The brain shot out of the skull, slapped into the wall, rolled down, and splattered into a gooey heap on the floor. Guts and entrails sprayed out like confetti and streamers at an NYE bash for zombies.
Tears streamed down Victor’s cheeks, mixing with the droplets of sweat. His mouth turned upside down in a comical display of grief. ‘No, no, NO!’
The creature’s lungs whizzed around the room, blowing a raspberry at him.
Victor watched them as they crashed into the windows like a blind bird.
The sacs plopped to the floor, farted a few bloody pockets of air out, and then were still.
Victor, grief-stricken, clung to the pulley’s column for support. He realised something, at long last. If you mistreat your workers, you shouldn’t feel shocked when things fall apart at the seams without them. Clutching the pillar, he sank to the floor, sobbing.
The creature’s fist clenched one last time and then went slack forever.
I’ve heard horror stories about the Canadian healthcare system. As an American, I’d like to clear this up, are you helped immediately if you have a stroke, heart attack, or any form of cancer, even at a public hospital?
I have a disabled son with a rare syndrome which caused, as he grew, severe scoliosis that was gradually killing him by crushing his chest cavity. It is called Kyphosis, and his was severe.
Children’s Hospital in Vancouver made the decision that he would need spinal surgery, and have titanium rods attached to his spine so that he could stay alive.
During the surgery, performed by two incredibly skilled pediatric/orthopedic surgeons and a talented team, he lost nerve transmission down his spinal column. The surgeons spent several hours in emergency mode, finding an unorthodox way to tilt the operating table in such a manner that they could create recovery in his nerve transmission. What they discovered was so unorthodox it was later written up in medical journals.
After twelve hours, the doctors took a break and he was immobilized over-night until they could go back into surgery. The hospital arranged for me to sleep beside his bed. The next day they returned to the O.R. and they placed the titanium rods along his spine, and so six hours later he went into recovery.
This was 12 years back, or so. Today he’s a happy-go-lucky young man. I learned later that the extent of the surgery that was performed would have cost in excess of $100K in the good old USA. I owe Children’s Hospital my son’s life. I paid nothing, so I made a large donation. The Canadian healthcare system should be envied by the world.
HANG ON! Switzerland Just Warned: Global Currency Devaluation Has Begun
Have you ever walked out of an interview?
I sure did. Earlier in my career, I worked for a small company doing some recruiting for a specific sales position.
One day, a man messaged me on LinkedIn about a recruiter position he was trying to fill. He was the local office Manager for a large national staffing company.
I figured I might as well check it out since he was offering more pay and the position was close by.
I walked in and sat down with the manager who was just very off putting. First he says something about my LinkedIn photo.
After that, he went through my resume and asked me questions like an ordinary interview. Towards the end he asked me what I thought of the position; and I told him that I can definitely do it, but I just had some questions about some of their metrics. And he proceeded to say something along the lines of:
“well it doesn’t seem like you’re that interested. Why are you so serious? You know, You should smile more. You’re such a beautiful girl. Give me a smile!!!”
I stood up and said. “No. I’m not really interested” and left his office.
As soon as I stepped out of his office, I looked around and I am not joking when I say this; every single person in that office looked exactly like me. Young, 20’s, White, brunette, brown eyes.
It was extremely bizarre. Not a single male. No blondes or redheads. No people of color. And it all clicked that it made total sense why he reached out to me on LinkedIn and made the comment about my photo! I’ll never forget this.
I started running to my car as soon as I hit the sidewalk.
Sir Whiskerton and the Case of the Disheveled Stray: A Tale of Grooming, Preparedness, and Feline Wisdom
Ah, dear reader, prepare yourself for a tale of tangled fur, sharp claws, and one very determined cat who proved that preparation is the key to success. Today’s story is one of grooming mishaps, slapstick chaos, and a stray who learned that looking “fine” isn’t always enough. So, grab your grooming brush (or perhaps a lint roller) and a sense of humor, as we dive into Sir Whiskerton and the Case of the Disheveled Stray: A Tale of Grooming, Preparedness, and Feline Wisdom.
The Importance of Grooming
It all began on a crisp morning when Sir Whiskerton, the farm’s resident feline detective, was giving Ditto, his ever-eager apprentice, a lesson on the finer points of cat-hood. “Ditto,” Sir Whiskerton said, flicking his tail, “there are two rules every cat must live by: always keep your fur clean and your claws sharp. A well-groomed cat is a prepared cat.”
Ditto tilted his head. “But why? What’s so important about grooming?”
Sir Whiskerton sighed. “Think of it this way: if you’re covered in mud and your claws are dull, how will you climb a tree to escape danger? Or catch a mouse for dinner? Or look dignified while napping in the sun?”
Ditto nodded thoughtfully. “I guess that makes sense.”
Just then, Catnip the Stray Cat sauntered into the barnyard, looking like he’d just lost a fight with a hedge. His fur was matted, his claws were blunt, and he had a leaf stuck to his tail. “Hey, Whiskerton,” Catnip said, scratching his ear with his hind leg. “What’s up?”
Sir Whiskerton raised an eyebrow. “Catnip, you look like you lost a fight with a tornado.”
Catnip shrugged. “Why bother grooming? I look fine!”
Sir Whiskerton flicked his tail. “Fine? You look like a walking hairball. If you’re not careful, you’ll get stuck in a tree—or worse, mistaken for a mop.”
The Grooming Mishap
Catnip, unfazed by Sir Whiskerton’s criticism, wandered off to cause trouble. Meanwhile, Sir Whiskerton decided to give Ditto a practical lesson in grooming. He produced a grooming brush from his detective kit and handed it to Ditto. “Here,” he said. “Start with your fur. A clean coat is the first step to being prepared.”
Ditto began brushing his fur, but he quickly got distracted by a butterfly and started chasing it around the barnyard. Sir Whiskerton sighed. “Focus, Ditto. Grooming is serious business.”
As Sir Whiskerton was demonstrating the proper technique for sharpening claws on a tree trunk, a commotion broke out near the chicken coop. Catnip, in his usual disheveled state, had tried to sneak into the coop to steal an egg but had gotten his fur tangled in the wire fence.
“Help!” Catnip yowled, flailing his paws. “I’m stuck!”
Sir Whiskerton and Ditto rushed over to find Catnip dangling from the fence, his fur hopelessly tangled. Doris the Hen clucked, “This is highly irregular. Stray cats are not supposed to be in the coop!”
Sir Whiskerton flicked his tail. “This is what happens when you don’t groom, Catnip. Your fur gets tangled, and you end up looking like a piñata.”
The Rescue Mission
Sir Whiskerton and Ditto set to work freeing Catnip from the fence. Ditto used the grooming brush to untangle Catnip’s fur, while Sir Whiskerton used his sharp claws to cut through the wire. It was a slow and tedious process, made even more difficult by Catnip’s constant complaining.
“Ow! Watch it with that brush!” Catnip yowled. “And why is this taking so long?”
Sir Whiskerton sighed. “If you’d taken the time to groom, this wouldn’t have happened. Preparation is key to success, Catnip. A well-groomed cat is a prepared cat.”
Catnip rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Can we hurry this up? I think a chicken just pecked me.”
After what felt like hours, Sir Whiskerton and Ditto finally freed Catnip from the fence. Catnip shook himself off, sending bits of fur and wire flying. “Thanks, I guess,” he muttered. “But I still don’t see why grooming is such a big deal.”
Sir Whiskerton flicked his tail. “You will. Just wait.”
The Consequences of Neglect
Later that day, Catnip’s lack of preparation caught up with him again. He tried to climb a tree to escape Rufus the Dog, but his dull claws couldn’t get a grip, and he tumbled into a pile of hay. Then, he tried to catch a mouse for dinner, but his matted fur made too much noise, and the mouse escaped.
“This is ridiculous!” Catnip said, brushing hay out of his fur. “Why does everything keep going wrong?”
Sir Whiskerton, who had been watching the chaos unfold, stepped forward. “Because you’re not prepared, Catnip. Your fur is a mess, your claws are dull, and you’re too busy causing trouble to take care of yourself.”
Catnip sighed. “Alright, alright. Maybe you’re right. But grooming is so boring.”
Sir Whiskerton flicked his tail. “It doesn’t have to be. Think of it as… self-care. A well-groomed cat is a confident cat. And a confident cat is a successful cat.”
The Grooming Lesson
Sir Whiskerton decided to give Catnip and Ditto a proper grooming lesson. He demonstrated how to brush their fur, clean their ears, and sharpen their claws. Ditto, eager to learn, followed along carefully. Catnip, though reluctant at first, eventually gave in and started grooming himself.
“See?” Sir Whiskerton said. “It’s not so bad. And look at the results.”
Catnip looked at his reflection in a puddle. His fur was sleek, his claws were sharp, and he looked… well, almost respectable. “Huh,” he said. “I guess I do look better.”
Sir Whiskerton nodded. “And now you’re prepared for whatever comes your way. Whether it’s climbing a tree, catching a mouse, or escaping a dog, you’ll be ready.”
The Moral of the Story
As the sun set over the farm, Sir Whiskerton gathered the animals for a final word. “Today, we learned an important lesson. Preparation is key to success. Whether it’s grooming your fur, sharpening your claws, or simply taking care of yourself, being prepared can make all the difference.”
Ditto nodded. “So, it’s okay to take time for grooming?”
“Exactly,” Sir Whiskerton said. “A well-groomed cat is a prepared cat. And a prepared cat is a successful cat.”
Catnip, who had been listening quietly, added, “And a cat who doesn’t get stuck in fences.”
Sir Whiskerton flicked his tail. “That too.”
A Happy Ending
With the grooming lesson complete, the animals returned to their routines. Catnip, now sleek and sharp, decided to put his newfound skills to the test by catching a mouse for dinner. Ditto practiced his grooming techniques, and Sir Whiskerton returned to his favorite spot on the barn roof, where he napped contentedly, knowing he had once again saved the day.
And so, dear reader, we leave our heroes with the promise of new adventures, new lessons, and new opportunities to embrace the importance of preparation. Until next time, may your days be filled with laughter, love, and just a little bit of feline wisdom.
The End.
Why are Americans so ignorant about the world?
I was invited earlier this year to watch the Superbowl. At half-time, they rolled out a rapper. I had never heard of him. I ask my friend’s young daughter for some background. She explained that he was in a “beef” with a Canadian rapper. None of this made sense to me.
I was ignorant.
Inconsequentially ignorant.
We are all ignorant. The real issue is what we choose to be ignorant about.
Being ignorant about things that may have significant impact on one’s life is a serious problem, but the scope and scale of knowledge necessarily means that we must choose, wisely one would hope, about the things we can safely ignore.
When I lived in Canada, Canadians were obsessed with what was happening in the U.S. As the late Pierre Elliot Trudeau famously said:
“Living next to you is in some ways like sleeping with an elephant. No matter how friendly and even-tempered is the beast, if I can call it that, one is affected by every twitch and grunt.”
– Pierre Trudeau, Prime Minister, addressing the Press Club in Washington, D.C., March 1969
When I correspond with my friends in Canada, who often ask (especially these days) what Americans think of Canada, they are often shocked by my response.
They don’t think about us at all.
To be fair, this is ignorance, but the thing that hurts the feelings of the British, the French and the Germans, etc., is that this is inconsequential ignorance.
As I’ve pointed out to my Canadian friends, enthusiastic in their boycott of American products, Canada is not quite a rounding error in the trade game, especially when compared with China. or even Mexico for that matter. Whereas trade with the U.S. represents 77% of the Canadian economy. The Canadian response to the Trump administration’s trade issues is consequential ignorance.
Why are Canadians so ignorant of the true nature of their relationship with the United States? I don’t know, but it has doomed the country.
By the same token, the situation in Yemen has been ridiculously consequential for years and Europeans have been most affected by it. For all their protestations that they are ready to go to war with Russia, they have been completely impotent to do anything about the Iranian knife at their throat when it comes to shipping through the Suez canal. Why are Europeans so ignorant of the reality of their impotence and irrelevance in global affairs? Europeans look to me to be silly people, woefully ignorance of themselves and their enemies.
“If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle.”
― Sun Tzu
This is unaffordable ignorance. The kind that dooms nations to extinction.
Clearly, there are Americans who are consequentially ignorant of the world. I think it’s clear that the last administration, perhaps many of the administrations of these last 30–35 years, have set the U.S. back with their ignorance of the world. I’m quite pleased that the current administration is far more clear eyed about what is consequential and what is not.
Finally we have the problem of illusory wisdom, which is the most dangerous kind of ignorance.
It’s not what you don’t know that hurts you, but what you know that ain’t so. —Mark Twain
We have all had to endure international analysis of domestic U.S. politics. The British have opinions on our elections founded on distorted reporting by their news sources. This is illusory wisdom. You are not well-informed when you are reading spin.
It’s OK to be ignorant, as long as its studied ignorance.
Shorpy
How does China keep education and healthcare costs so low for average citizens?
China’s economic model is an economic system with public ownership as the main body and the common development of multiple ownership economies.
Unlike the US and the West, the best hospitals in China are public hospitals and the best schools are public schools.
Fees charged by public hospitals and public schools follow the maximum price limits set by the Government.
China’s private hospitals are just supplements. They are not as good as public hospitals in terms of doctor resources, medical technology, medical equipment, etc., but their service attitude and luxurious decoration are better than public hospitals. The fees are much higher than public hospitals.
The same is true for private schools in China. They look luxurious and charge high fees, like schools for the aristocracy, but the chance of getting into a prestigious school is much lower than that of public schools.
In China, only underachieving children from wealthy families choose private schools. 😅
Health care and education can be semi-marketized, but not fully marketized.
Chinese football has been ruined by complete marketization, with many players involved in gambling and match-fixing.
In short, Privatization is the bane of everything, and medical and education under the control of capital is profit-oriented.
First Time Watching – Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981)
What was the most dangerous or threatening situation you’ve been in and how did you get out?
At 15 years old, I got into a car with two men because I was tired and needed a ride home.
I only did this because my friend said they were friends of her older brother and she knew them.
She lied.
She got in the back with one so I stupidly got in front.
Immediately I knew I was in serious trouble.
The driver was horrifying in every way.
He was nasty and cursed at me.
She suggested we party!
I was appalled.
I just couldn’t believe this.
So, I said: “okay great, let me stop home to check on things and get some money”.
So he stopped at my house. I never came back out!
After 15 minutes or so she came knocking.
I told her no way was I going anywhere with them or her, but she should stay there with me.
She was angry and left.
I didn’t care.
I locked up.
She’s dead now!
Not from that evening, but from a lifestyle I cannot comprehend.
And yet no response from Beijing.
Philippines is getting the second battery of US’ Typhon Missiles. Philippines has already deployed a battery of Typhon Missiles since April last year. At the very least we could simply cancel all Filipino visas in Hong Kong and expel them and place sanctions on them.
Yet the response from Beijing is nothing.
Why aren’t we putting nuclear missiles in Cuba. Mexico of South America?
The False Messiah
Submitted into Contest #288 in response to: Start or end your story with a breeze brushing against someone’s skin.… view prompt
Nathan Chandler
“Good morning, Sister. Papers, please.”
Six and a half feet of iron and plastic, the android loomed over her, its gray, human-like face expressionless. At times she thought it strange how they referred to them as angels. Their presence didn’t evoke divinity but rather temporal memories of distant battlefields. Two more angels angled towards her, impatient. She fumbled through her purse, exhaling in relief as she finally found her ID.
Maximus, the head angel, scanned it. “Cleared. Christ is King, sister.”
“Christ is King, Maximus,” Rachel replied as the rectory doors swung open.
Inside, hymns and chattering filled the air. Cloaked in brown and white, Rachel contrasted against the priests in orange and gold robes. Her father had worked there as a scholar. Priests nodded in recognition as she passed.
Her father’s rhyme echoed in her mind. A lament for condemned heathens? She wasn’t so sure.
The oak-thorn doors to the great Hall of Archives groaned open. Bookshelves lined the stone walls, AI-assisted priests translated ancient texts at busy computer stations. Then the prayer bell rang. The priests filed out, leaving Rachel alone.
A golden crucifix leaned awkwardly against a shelf, half-covered by a black drape. She straightened it and pulled back the cloth, revealing a carving of Bethel at Zion, the first temple.
Behind the cross where darkness grows… A temple built on shifting land. Was this the meaning?
Her fingers traced its ridges.
Click.
The carving popped open, revealing a hidden cavity. Her heart pounded as she reached inside and withdrew a scroll.
At her father’s old desk, she carefully unrolled it.
“I, Marcus, son of Simon Peter, write this truth but fear it may be buried with lies.”
Rachel’s breath stopped.
“My father and the disciples saw our Lord crucified and rise again. Yet, on the road, a herald cloaked in light approached them.
‘You follow a false Jesus,’ he declared. ‘He is a demon.’
Doubts festered. At the herald’s urging, they confronted the false Jesus, but he spoke only a few words before vanishing.
On the ninth day, the herald declared himself the true Jesus Christ. He exalted them for their loyalty. Yet before he died, my father’s doubts returned. Did they choose the real Messiah that day, or were they deceived?”
Rachel trembled.
The AI scanner returned the dating results. Over 2,000 years old exactly around the time of the disciples.
If true, everything they believed was a lie.
Hours Later…
That night, Rachel returned home, but peace eluded her.
She sat in the kitchen thinking but she was interrupted when her sister-wife’s frustrations pierced her silence.
Sarah sighed and frowned. “Why isn’t it working?” she said inspecting the cylindrical holo-projectors in their living room.
Rachel left the kitchen and joined Sarah to check the holo-projector—no green light. “It’s not connected to The Veil, is the Gateway on?” asked Rachel.
Sarah sighed and went to power on a sleek black-and-silver device, the Gateway. Symbols glowed as it searched for a signal.
“To connect, recite our Lord’s Prayer,” the system prompted.
Sarah began:
“Our powerful Lord in Radiance who reigns over the heavens and time,
Hallowed be Your illustrious Name.
Your Kingdom shines, Your will is obeyed,
On Earth as it is across the heavens and time,
Grant us your eternal grace,
Extinguish our doubts, and protect us from heresy,
For yours is the radiant Kingdom, the greatest power, and the greatest glory.
From this age to the final age, everlasting.
Hosanna, Hosanna, Christ is King!”
“Blessed be, you are now connected to The Veil,” the voice confirmed.
The holo-projectors flickered to life, displaying their Lord and Savior. Clad in golden light and flowing white robes, his black curls and misty brown eyes exuded divine authority. They knelt, heads bowed in reverence.
Rachel quivered on her knees, unable to shake off the dread creeping into her skin.
Next Day…
Rachel moved across St. David’s marketplace, an area replete with relic stalls, holy breads, and the low hum of drones dropping off wares. Angels patrolled quietly, their imposing android forms a perpetual reminder of the Apostolic Conclave’s ever watchful eye.
She turned down an alley, quickly heaving and coughing as frankincense and myrrh filled her lungs.
Clearing her throat and taking a deep breath, Rachel pressed on, navigating the narrow pathways towards a dark blue apartment at the alley’s end. She climbed a short flight of stairs and knocked.
Several minutes passed. Then, the door creaked open, Brother Michael, her father’s old friend, peeked his head out, his eyes darting around suspiciously. Seeing Rachel, his eyes lit up with recognition and dark concern.
“What are you doing here?”
“ I need answers. I found something,” replied Rachel.
“I can’t help you, child.” He moved to close the door, but Rachel pressed forward.
“I found my father’s scroll.”
Michael’s expression shifted. He seized her by the shoulders and yanked her inside, locking the door behind them.
Rachel stumbled into a room that smelled of old parchment and candle wax. Crucifixes and ancient verses lined the walls.
“Mind your words, girl! Do you want the Conclave to hear?”
Rachel’s heart pounded. “You know about the scroll?”
Michael sighed. “I was there when we found it.”
“What does it mean? The things it claims—”
“You feel different, don’t you?”
Rachel hesitated. “I used to pray with certainty, completeness. Now, I feel… lost.”
“Follow me,” he said.
Michael led her from the entrance towards a couch in the living room, he booted up a holo-projector as Rachel sat. Glowing scripture appeared in the middle of the room in holographic form.
“John 8:3-11,” Rachel read aloud. “Jesus condemns the adulterous woman.”
Michael shook his head. “Not quite. Look again.”
The translation displayed a passage she didn’t recognize.
“Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.”
The crowd left, ashamed. Then Jesus turned to the woman and said, “Neither do I condemn thee: go and sin no more.”
Rachel gasped. “No! The punishment for adultery is death!”
“Before, it wasn’t— not until the Conclave changed the scriptures.”
“No! This is blasphemy!” Rachel protested.
A woman stepped forward from behind them. “Then every member of the Conclave should be executed for rewriting scripture.”
Rachel spun toward the voice. A woman in a blue shirt and gray pants met her gaze with reassured detachment.
Michael gestured. “This is Elara. She found the proof.”
Rachel frowned. “What?”
Elara smiled assuredly. “I was a technician for the Conclave. One day, a junior apostle sent me a device to erase. He left part of his access codes stored on the device and unencrypted—careless. I cracked the codes and found hidden manuscripts, dated and authenticated by the church itself.”
Rachel’s mind reeled. “But why would they change the scriptures?”
“To control faith, to justify their rule,” Elara said. “Have you never questioned why our kind, compassionate, merciful son of God, executes women for spurious charges of adultery and orders holy war after holy war. Do you think that truly comes from the scriptures?”
Rachel thought of the recent stonings she had witnessed.
“There’s more,” Elara continued. “Come with me.”
Elara reached a bright orange door and led them down a stairwell into a room illuminated by holographic screens. She plugged a device into a terminal. Hundreds of files appeared under the header: Confidential BioTechnical.
“Let’s find something juicy,” she muttered, searching.
Blueprints filled the air as Rachel’s stomach twisted.
“It’s a healing device.”
Michael frowned. “What?”
Rachel pointed to a familiar black-and-gold orb device. “The Messiah always holds this during healing ceremonies.”
Elara zoomed in. “There—inside the orb. See these?”
There were tiny machines. With measurements too small for the eye to see.
Rachel’s throat went dry. “It’s a machine, all of it is a machine.”
“I thought it was ceremonial. God’s son wouldn’t need a machine to heal people,” said Michael.
Elara opened another file. Images of a sleek, black and gold vessel appeared, its design unlike anything they knew.
Michael’s voice elevated. “And that’s no plane.”
Rachel read the documents aloud. “Landed in the Holy Land… About two thousand years ago…”
Elara exhaled sharply. “You see… Our Messiah didn’t descend from heaven. He arrived from the stars.”
Rachel whispered, “And we’ve been worshiping him ever since.”
Michael exhaled. “We must expose this.”
Rachel hesitated. “They’ll call it heresy and find ways to undermine this.”
“Then we find undeniable proof, in the catacombs.” replied Elara.
Later that day Elara found her nephew Azriel at the university. She knew he excelled at machinery. Elara entrusted him with blueprints to the healing device, hoping he could build his own and confirm the church’s deception.
Days Later…
Rachel tensed as holograms flickered before her. She sat beside her sister-wife Sarah watching historical programming depicting General Maximilian’s victory during the First Heathen War. They watched as the Apostolic Army struck down heathen warriors who sported banners depicting a blood red leaf atop a white background bordered by two red stripes.
Her grandfather once told her that these heathens were tree worshippers.
The programming ended as their husband Asher entered the room.
He gestured for Sarah to retire upstairs as he came to sit beside Rachel. Once Sarah left, he spoke.
“Rachel, is there something going on?”
Her chest tightened. “What do you mean my love?”
“Brother Malachi, my friend from the Conclave keeps asking me about you—your late father, your activities. And then today, he told me a husband must rule his house as Christ rules the heavens and the earth. He implied you’ve been… wayward somehow.”
Rachel’s breath caught. “I swear, husband, nothing is going on.”
“Then why were you with Brother Michael? A defrocked priest?”
“He’s an old friend of my father, Asher. I promised my father I would look in on him, that’s it.”
Asher said nothing,
“Do you believe me?”
He only nodded.
Two Days Later…
7th day of Veritium – Marketplace of Seraphis
Rachel weaved through the bustling market, searching stalls for produce. Holographic prices and mascots flickered around them. Customers walked by clicking and tapping their Lightband devices to quickly compare prices so they could haggle.
She passed an alleyway and froze. A hooded figure in blue and gold met her gaze—Elara.
Rachel looked around to ensure no one was watching, then she followed Elara into an abandoned warehouse. Inside, Michael sat waiting.
“We need to move,” he said. “It’s time to go into the catacombs.”
Rachel hesitated. “And do what? Tell the world their God is false? Bring violence, rebellion, war!”
“You sought the truth, Rachel, you cannot stop now,” Michael said.
“Maybe I was wrong.” Her voice trembled with fear. “Brother Malachi from the Apostolic Conclave has been watching me. He already questioned my husband.”
Elara turned to Michael. “We must act now—before they put it all together!”
Rachel trembled. “Even if we find proof, people will be shattered. We would be destroying their faith. What right do we have?”
“If the faith is good, then why did you seek the truth?” Michael asked.
Rachel said nothing.
Elara leaned forward. “We don’t just expose the truth—we broadcast it. My nephew has access to the holo network at his university. It’s connected to The Veil. If we upload the proof, it will spread to every city in the Celestial Order within seconds.”
“The church has firewalls,” Michael warned.
“I can bring them down,” Elara said. “I can upload a virus that will brute force the church firewalls and send our message everywhere.”
Michael turned to Rachel. “Are you with us?”
Rachel’s hands trembled.
But then she remembered the women she had seen stoned to death by angels. Suddenly, the weighty desire for truth pressed on her chest like an iron brand.
“Let’s do this.” She nodded.
Later That Night…
In the catacombs they passed through walls lined with the bones of long dead saints. Eventually arriving at a rock face with an ancient Greek inscription:
“Love the Lord your God with all your heart… Love your neighbor as yourself.”
Rachel stiffened. The official church version demanded obedience—and death for heathens.
A door suddenly swung open, and a junior priest appeared, eyes fixed on his LightBand. Michael launched forward and lunged towards him, shoving the priest against the wall.
Michael struck him until unconscious. Elara seized his LightBand and waved it across the door sensor, the door unlocked.
Inside, dim green lights glowed. Rachel nearly stumbled into a row of computers. Then she saw it.
Sitting on a raised black platform was a massive black and gold vessel.
Moments later the vessel’s metal gears groaned and a hatch slid open. Elara rushed inside, Rachel following.
The ship pulsed and oozed with an unknown fluid. Rachel went to the back of the ship examining the walls and alien technology screens. She found herself in a back room filled with pods. She pressed her hand to one and the cover slid down.
Inside lay an insect-like being—four eyes, clawed hands, and an armored body. The next pod contained another. And another.
Then she turned.
Another row of pods.
Rachel’s breath hitched when one of the pod covers slid open.
Staring back at her, a body bearing Brother Malachi’s face. Then another pod, and another, all with his face.
She stumbled back, then sprinted toward Elara.
“Elara, come see this!”
Elara was at a console, screens flickering with holograms.
In one of the holograms an alien fleet commanded by the insectoid beings soared toward Earth. Then without warning an asteroid storm obliterated all but one ship. The lone ship hurtled towards Earth and crashed.
Footage changed. The surviving insectoid, using a black orb, healed its wounds.
Rachel whispered, “A god doesn’t need a device to heal.”
More images. The creature transformed—golden light engulfed it. When it faded, the Messiah stood in its place.
Rachel’s stomach twisted.
The church’s Christ… was an impostor.
They had to show the world.
Rachel and Elara recorded what they could on their LightBands. Their efforts stopped short when Michael shouted for them.
They scrambled for cover as angels opened fire. Michael returned fire, but more Angels poured in and formed a shield wall impervious to bullets.
Brother Malachi entered, flanked by the Angel Maximus.
The angels paused as he spoke.
“It pains me to find you here, Rachel,” he sneered. “A woman of faith, now a heretic. Your father would be ashamed.”
“Don’t speak of my father!” Rachel shouted, her voice breaking.
Malachi advanced. “Surrender now and perhaps the Conclave will show mercy.”
“This church is full of lies, I have seen the truth Malachi. We worship a mortal alien being, not the son of God!”
“Lies! You will pay for this heresy!” Brother Malachi shouted back.
The angels fired.
Rachel’s eyes darted to the ground. Water pooled in cracks near the platform. She felt air beneath. A hidden passage.
Elara pried up the floor panel. “Go!”
Bullets whizzed past as Rachel and Elara plunged into darkness. Michael covered their escape—then the panel abruptly slammed shut behind them.
Rachel screamed. “Michael!” She thought he was behind her.
Elara pulled her forward. “He gave us a chance. Don’t waste it.”
They surfaced near the marketplace, slipping into the crowds as they made their way to the University where Azriel waited.
The Broadcast
Inside the control room, Rachel stood before the holo-network feeds as Elara bypassed the firewalls.
The truth flashed across The Veil—images of alien bodies, altered scriptures, the false Messiah’s transformation.
“People of the Celestial Order, I come before you to reveal a long-hidden truth. Our king is not the Messiah. This being that we worship is a false god, a mortal alien being from a distant world!”
Rachel raised the healing device for all to see. She slashed her palm, then waved the orb device across her wound. The wound disappeared.
“A god does not need a machine to heal, I was able to have this machine fabricated by the hand and mind of a man.”
More images of the alien pods appeared with bodies bearing the face of Brother Malachi.
The final proof appeared: a letter from Ananias II, revealing the church’s deception.
Rachel’s voice shook. “From the time of Ananias II the church knew, they lied to us. Using soulless, motherless, copies of men to keep us in line! No more. Rise. Demand the truth!”
Elara nodded to Rachel, the truth was out.
Five months later…
Her dress billowed with nature’s breath as a light breeze brushed and caressed her skin. Rachel walked quietly through the grassy plains. Standing behind her was a simple house where Asher tended their son. Tragically, the Conclave found and disappeared her sister Sarah, along with Sarah’s daughter.
Rebellion came to the Celestial Order, commanded by a group called Children of the True Way. The false alien Christ disappeared along with its ship, many saying the alien finally returned to its world.
She no longer felt the emptiness when she prayed, comforted by the new Bible in her hands, a compendium of scripture no longer corrupted by the False Messiah.
Rachel fell to her knees in the middle of the field, lowering her head as she whispered a prayer.
“Speak to me, Lamb of God, Prince of Peace. Show me it was worth it.”
A gentle warm light wrapped around Rachel, and she felt a calming presence wash over her.
A voice, calm and steady, spoke.
“Rachel. Rachel. I am here. I was always here.”
Her breath caught as she lifted her head, this was different, the true Messiah had come.
The End…
My Chinese boyfriend has said ‘I love you’ and is talking about marriage within 1 week of dating. Is this normal?
I have a couple of questions for you to answer to yourself. Is your boyfriend in mainland China or a recent immigrant from mainland China? When he says he loves you, does he say “I love you,” in English or in Chinese? Basically I see two separate issues to touch on: speed of commitment and speed of verbal affection.
I used to try online dating on an app for mainland Chinese people in the past, and I have also dated people who did not grow up in or have their education in mainland China. There seems to be a differentiation. The basic difference I have noticed is that the more traditional the family he comes from, or if he comes from mainland Chinese culture, he will be quicker to consider and discuss marriage; within the first few dates. As one man in Beijing once told me when I asked why I couldn’t have more time to better know him when he pushed me for an answer on if I would commit to marrying him, “We can get married now and have the rest of our lives to know each other better.”
No way. I have no problem with committing to a man if I know that he is someone I can love and respect. But I absolutely have to be assured of his character first. I must weigh risks before such huge decisions and I must make sure my decision is right for me but also fair to my daughter and for that matter, to the man I would marry.
The man from Beijing that I spoke with years ago refused to allow me any time to communicate with him but wanted to rush to marry, so I wished him well. Granted, the man in question was 65 at the time, so I could somewhat understand why he felt the desire to move quickly. However, it’s the opposite of our culture where we get to know someone before signing legal documents that bind us to another ideally for life. There are risks to analyze no matter who the person is. Yes, it can be very much worth that risk, but you won’t know that until you spend time together as a couple, as well as talk together often to learn more about each other, so you can be sure that what you both want lines up together.
Neither option is better than the other but each couple have different preferences and needs to consider. Generally speaking, Chinese people educated in the West or who have spent time around Western culture will be more sensitive to our reticence about immediate engagements. I suggest having a calm conversation with him where you can explain that the two of you have encountered your first (of many) cultural differences. There’s nothing wrong with cultural differences. However, sometimes when the other party isn’t aware, the party who is aware will need to be patient and gracious and talk them through it. And, do be fair to him. Making him wait for years isn’t a good compromise unless he’s agreeable to it. A balance needs to be struck in timing (months? Years?) that both of you can live with. Any time there’s a disagreement in a relationship, it’s important that both parties can calmly discuss it and find a solution together that both of them can live with; a solution that is fair to them both and that meets both their needs. That can be done without any upset, high emotions, or tension. It might take a little trial and error but if you’re patient with one another, you’ll arrive at it quicker than you think.
Now, the issue with him saying, “I love you,” so soon. In Chinese culture men do not usually verbally express love. At least not very often. The younger generation is more likely to say it…perhaps. They’re more likely to show love by actions. It can be very subtle.
However, I caution you. I once encountered a man who also immediately wanted to assume matching online meant we were a couple and the second day he said, “I love you,” as he said goodbye. Oh, I felt panic clawing my throat closed! But I calmly asked, “Can I ask why you said that you loved me? You’ve only just met me, and you really don’t know all that much about me at all. And I was under the impression men in China didn’t often say that.”
His response, “True, you’re right we don’t usually talk about love very much. But I watch a lot of Hollywood movies. American girls like to hear, “I love you.” They think it’s romantic.”
So, it’s quite possible he doesn’t actually feel “love” for you, but more that he has romantic feelings for you and is trying to express them in a way that he thinks a Western woman will appreciate. So handle this with kindness and gentle tact if you feel the need to address it. I think his intentions are in the right place, and there’s no need to judge him harshly, if at all.
You could possibly take time to explain to him that “love” in English is like saying 我爱你 (wō ài nī) if he happens to be a new English speaker. If he’s new to speaking English or only has the opportunity to speak it with you, he may not realize the intense feelings those words can often evoke in a romantic relationship.
It reminds me of when my Pastor and his family came from Guangdong and their (at the time) older teens were broadening their English vocabulary to include slang. I was joining the family for a traditional meal one evening and the kids kept saying f***ing this and f***ing that and Mother F***er. In front of their parents, elders, and myself (whom they knew as Auntie). I was trying not to choke in shock or laughter every time it happened. Their elders were oblivious, not knowing much English. I honestly couldn’t tell if it was the innocence of learning to cuss in a new language or if they were trolling us. But if I erred on the side of innocence then I realized they had no idea that it conveyed a bit more than “damn it!” And so it could be in this situation.
So to sum it up, in a very kind, conversational way, just open the door to have a talk with him about your concerns. Keep it non-confrontational and try to assume the best of his intentions unless proven otherwise. Good luck! I wish you many years of happiness.
What is the best revenge you got on a superior in your workplace?
I was working as a quantity estimator for a flooring company, and my boss asked me if I could spend time on a weekend working on a project estimate that had a deadline coming up. I decided I’d be a team player and work the weekend on about, oh, three hours notice. And so I did and got him the estimate. In Tuesday he comes into the office and said something to the effect of “You know that homework I gave you over the weekend? We sort of have a problem. You punched in on the clock to do that work, and that was sort of like homework. We aren’t allowed to have people on overtime.”
I told him that there was no way I was working a bunch of overtime on my meager salary, for free. I said that if the company wanted to negotiate a fixed salary we could do that. I even did a couple things off the clock for him in the meantime because he was in a bind. But after more than two weeks, I heard nothing. I asked him about it, and he said he would “check on that”. The next Monday I get a visit by the owner’s wife, who had fired the HR staff and was doing the HR work herself, or mostly not doing it. She showed up in her Cadillac Escalade about two days a week and put in a handful of hours, but I wouldn’t call most of what she did “work”. We went into a private office and shut the door.
She said that she had the salary situation worked out so I could work overtime. She handed me a document, and I read it, and it said basically that going forward, I would not need to punch the clock. Instead I would be on a weekly salary. The salary was my meager wage multiplied by 40. Essentially, what she had “fixed” was making me a salaried employee at the exact same pay, so I could work overtime for them, for free.
“This is your solution for my need to work overtime?”
“Yes. You’ll need to sign this document and you won’t be punching in and out anymore.”
I was fucking livid. This person who lives a life of luxury while doing next to nothing other than making employee’s lives miserable, thought I was stupid enough to be conned in this way. It was an insult to my intelligence as well as thoroughly illegal.
So, I started doing things her way, but whenever my boss asked me to work overtime I did so, but compensated by taking time off for at least that many hours. I’d come in early, leave early, take a long leisurely lunch.
After about a month and a half, I get called into the office again and she’s livid. “I understand that you have been coming in late, leaving early, nobody knows where you are half the time. How many hours a week are you working?” I said that I wasn’t aware of how many hours a week I was working, because I wasn’t required to punch in and out anymore. There’s no record.
She said something to the effect of “It’s pretty arrogant to think that you can just do whatever you want!”
I said “Well, I think it’s pretty arrogant for a housewife who works a handful of hours a week and drives a $70,000 vehicle to work to ask me to work overtime off the clock, illegally. I’m sure I’m putting in multiples of the amount of hours that YOU work a week.”.
Later that day I get called into the office again, to tell me that I’ve been written up, and that from now on I will be into the office at a minimum of a certain time and leave no earlier than a certain time. She asked me to sign the document, which was some standard document that she copied off the internet that had “EXAMPLE” written across it. Instead of writing a few lines in the space provided, I wrote an entire page of commentary listing the laws of my state and federal employment law that they were violating, which included the legal consequences including hefty fines and reimbursement of lost salary with treble damages. I also detailed all of the illegal things they had asked me to do and others, including asbestos approval without a permit and without certified personnel or precautions, throwing asbestos into standard trash containers (both of which can release asbestos particles into the air, creating a heightened risk of lung cancer), asking employees to work while injured against doctor’s instructions, telling employees that were injured on the job to use their health insurance instead of filing a worker’s compensation claim, asking employees to use personal vehicles and incur expenses which were not reimbursed, and of course forcing employees to work unpaid overtime.
I handed that in with my “write-up” and was later summoned to discuss it. She was livid. She claimed that I was not eligible for overtime because I was in a managerial position even though I was certainly not and was not managing anything. I told her that if that’s her position, that we could find out if the government agrees, because I had recorded all of the overtime I worked off the clock and would be happy to submit a claim to the labor board and that she would be responsible for treble damages (they would have to pay my owed salary, plus an amount that is three times the amount they shorted me as damages). I further told her that I would work overtime as instructed, but going forward any unpaid overtime would result in a claim, and they were liable for fines and treble damages of not committing a crime punishable by law.
A day later they decided that I would be punching the clock again, and I was not allowed to work any overtime without prior approval, which made me laugh, in her presence. I told a coworker about this and apparently he has been forced to work overtime off the clock as well, so he went in complaining and put a stop to it as well. They weren’t going to be illegally ripping people off anymore.
There’s nothing more satisfying than giving an arrogant, cheap, and evil employer the business, with the truth and the law on your side.
Baked Crawfish Macaroni and Cheese
Yield: 6 servings
Ingredients
- 1/2 pound elbow macaroni, cooked al dente
- 2 tablespoons butter
- Nonstick cooking spray
- 1/2 pound cheese, cut into small cubes*
- 1 tablespoon granulated sugar
- 2 eggs, beaten
- 1/2 cup milk
- 1 cup cooked Louisiana crawfish tails, roughly chopped
Instructions
- Heat oven to 350 degrees F.
- Cook the pasta to al dente; drain, and stir in the butter.
- Spray a baking dish with nonstick spray and add the pasta.
- Mix in the cheese, sugar, eggs, milk and crawfish tails.
- Bake for 40 to 45 minutes, until the macaroni is bubbly and the top is golden brown.
Notes
* Use any mix of pepper jack, Gouda, sharp or mild cheddar, Colby jack, etc.
Have you ever conned a car salesman who thought he was going to con you?
I was a bartender at the time and I was talking to a customer discussing how I was looking for a new to me, used car for sale. He said he had a friend coming to meet him in a few minutes and he is a used car salesman. Great! 15 minutes later this VERY handsome man walked in and I got him a drink and his friend introduced us. I told him what I was looking for and what I had to trade. He told me where he worked and to stop out. I did so the next day. He made me a deal I could not refuse. He put me in a beautiful sports car and used my trade In as my down payment, awesome! I knew I was paying to much for the car but you see the car I traded in would not pass inspection and need a lot of cosmetic work that was not instantly visible. I had no choice i needed a new car to get to work. When I bought the car the car salesman asked me out for coffee. Sure, why not? We dated for a couple of weeks. One evening he stopped over to my house and said to me. “Man, you got me good. You got me in trouble….” 😬 oops. He said “the car you traded in is going to cost a lot to get inspected!” “Um, it was a nice car! Why do you think I had to get a new car!?” I told him oh by the way while I was busy ripping you off, I was well aware of you ripping me off with the price I am paying for my new car! 21 years together and we still laugh about it!🤣
To those people in the world who have access to universal healthcare, what experiences could you share with Americans in order for us to understand how it affects your life (positively or negatively)?
Yesterday I was bent over a suitcase and stood up very quickly, smashing my head on the corner of the kitchen cupboard.
I was bleeding quite a lot and felt a bit sick, my brother drove me to A&E and we were there for an hour. In that hour I received 3 blood pressure tests (one standing up), pulse checks, a doctor and then a nurse shone a small light into my eyes, and she cleaned the wounds and put a load of steri-strips/butterfly stitches on the two wounds, gave me some spare steri-strips, a couple of paracetamols for my slight headache, advice about how to take care of myself for the next day, and a sheet of paper with information about how to care for head injuries.
At no point was money ever mentioned. My brother had to pay for parking for £1.50 an hour, so it’s possible the time at A&E cost £3 total, if we went slightly over the hour mark.
We don’t have health insurance in the UK, so at no point did anyone ever ask about insurance or anything like that.
Here is a photo of the accident: