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“Bartholomew the Piñata,” he whispered. “What fresh hell is this?”

When I was attending Gannon college (now “university” in Erie, PA during my Sophomore year at Syracuse) I was living with my father and taking courses in archaeology and anthropology. Fun course, and I got to go to many “digs” during those halcyon days of Summer.

My step-mother was a bitch, and she did not get along with myself or any of my fathers children. And eventually she threw me out on the streets one day. Her house. Her rules. Ok. I get it.

No problem, she just didn’t have to be such a bitch and terror over it.

Anyways, eventually I got a room off of the downtown in an old mansion owned by an aging socialite. Her name was Mrs Gay (same name as another old socialite woman living alone in East Brady) and she rented out the upper floors into these small dorms for us young men to live in. Since it was Summer, I shared a ten bed room with two other guys, and I hardly ever saw them

I wasn’t there long. Just long enough to appreciate the old matrimonial figure that Mrs Gay was, her habits and the house. Quite a place let me tell you.

The living room was an old ballroom with custom hardwood floors, and a floor to ceiling mirror that was magnificent. In fact, I will never forget that darn mirror. It was quite amazing. I’ll tell ya, a big mirror makes a big difference. Truly.

I have other stories, not many, but other ones from that time in my life.

She had a cat, a Siamese, and it would come to hang out with me. Not touch. Not be petted, but just to hang out. I liked that.

One day, or night actually, a local fraternity broke into the house (well, it was never locked) and stole all the liquor and ate our pre-prepared lunches stored in the refrigerator. Bastards took my “good” egg salad sandwich, leaving me the one with the end crusts to eat. bastards!

But, again.  That mirror was astounding.

Some mirror porn, you all…

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Today…

The SAS has an incredible reputation. Everyone knows the name. But the next thing you know they don’t get nearly as much money as the U.S. special forces. So what’s going on?

Here’s the deal: Great is not necessarily expensive.

Think of a top chef. They can have a small kitchen to work from and basic tools. But their skills? Next level. Other chefs with fancy equipment still follow them. Why? Because that chef knows their business — no wasted space, just 100% talent.

That’s what happens when it comes to SAS. Their gear may not be updated. Their funding may not have a way of making their heads rise. But their training? Their standards? Some of the hardest in the world. And the latter nonetheless commands real respect even from soldiers with better equipment and more cash.

Because you can’t buy grit. You can’t fake experience. And you can’t be intellectually dishonest to get that kind of reputation. You have to earn it.

The SAS doesn’t have to make a noise about what they do. Their record speaks for itself. And when it counts people don’t (and shouldn’t) care about shiny gear as they care about whether or not it can get the job done.

Do British SAS soldiers keep their rank and identity secret?

I served 30 years as a full time fireman, alongside one of my best fireman mates T, we were on the same shift for 14 years, we used to go to retirement do’s and parties, being usually the last to leave… (Read Full)

Cheater Fiancée Thought Her Waterworks Would Save Her Engagement, Instead He Took Back The Ring

Love drama; yada yada, yada.  Yet another reason why I don’t want to return back to this life through reincarnation.

Hmmm…

I’d love to give a loaded, sarcastic answer, but truth is, it would be redundant.

Compared to most of Europe, the US is a nanny state. To US citizens who have been brainwashed into thinking they invented liberty, my statement would seem like a stretch or an outright lie.

It’s not.

Europe tends to treat its citizens like adults and error-prone humans. There are rules and laws that are for the greater good, of course. I’d expect nothing less from a civilised society. Not to mention that I’m not a selfish twat, so I’m always happy to do whatever it takes to support the greater good.

But, thankfully, Europe still accepts that human beings are fallible and, also, that they’re not five year-old morons.

I’m a functioning adult, so I take exception with being told where I can cross roads, or whether I’m allowed to drink alcohol on a beach, or whether I can smoke OUTDOORS, or whether I can or can’t sunbathe topless by the sea, or where I’m allowed to ‘loiter’ (which is another word for standing-whilst-minding-my-own-business), or whether I can pee behind a tree at a festival.

I appreciate the attitude of law enforcement in western European countries. They are there to enforce major, harmful infractions, but they’re not on a sick power trip, looking to disrespect citizens or shut down all the harmless fun.

America sucks. Honest to God, it does. It’s all smoke and mirrors. Land of the free, but only if you behave like a robot.

A total farce.

Collection Day

Written in response to: Set your story during — or just before — a storm.

Dustin Connors

The hovercraft roared over the treeline, hulking steel against a bruised gray sky. The rotors thrashed, a violent, mechanical pulse, as the Collectors, clad in shiny black armor, spilled out onto the cracked earth.“Collection Day!” Commander Hu sang, his voice crackling through the comm system and echoing through the steel hull. Kufu stood fast and readied his weapon. The door opened with a hiss as early morning sunlight poured inside.”Unload!” Commander Hu called.Their boots thudded and pounded the floor, first steel and then earth, as the villagers beyond cowered behind huts and crates.The Collectors burst forth from the hovercraft like terrible ants, busy and bustling. They moved with ruthless efficiency. One yanked a sack of withered potatoes from a woman’s trembling hands. Another snatched a clay pot, its contents spilling onto the dust, staining it a muddy brown.Kufu watched, his stomach clenching. This was once his home. None of them knew that, of course. When you joined the Collectors, any life you once had was washed away like soot in the rain. He’d been on more than a dozen of these runs. More than a dozen Collection Days, each of them vicious, but none like this.Then he saw her. Willow. She stood apart, her chin lifted in a gesture of defiance he remembered so well. Even after all this time, the fire in her eyes was unmistakable. It was Willow, unbent, unbeaten, untamed. Thunder crashed in the distance as a wave of memories crashed over him.It was a Collection Day like this one, many years ago. The sun beat down on their bare backs as the two of them, scrawny saplings in a field of oaks, snuck through the tall grass. Mrs. Rosen had fallen ill, so they had hidden away a few armfuls of food and medicine and were determined to find a place to hide before the hovercraft left.Willow had a knack for hiding. She was always the last caught in hide-and-seek. But on this day, something gave them away, perhaps the swaying of the grass as they crawled through it.”Who’s there?” A Collector’s shout, sharp as a blade, shattered the quiet.Fear, cold and slick, slid down Kufu’s spine. He glanced at Willow, her eyes wide and dark. He pressed a finger to his lips.”Shh,” he breathed silently. Then he stood up, his arms raised.“I’m sorry, sir, it’s my aunt. She’s sick.”“Come here,” the Collector barked.

Kufu stepped forward carefully as Willow crouched frozen. There were some words exchanged but Kufu could never recall them. Collectors did not permit explanations or negotiations. They dealt only in force. They pummeled him, each blow a dull thud against his ribs, his back, his skull. Then, as he blood mixed with the dirt beneath him, they gathered the food and medicine, and marched away. But Willow, hidden amongst the stalks, was safe.

“She’s a feisty one,” a Collector crackled. Kufu stared back at him as a light rain began tapping on their helmets.

Willow, cornered, lashed out. Her small fist connected with a Collector’s arm, a surprising show of strength. The other Collectors swarmed her. One grabbed her arms from behind as another lifted his weapon, ready to strike her. But Willow reared back like a bucking horse and kicked hard, her foot cracking his visor. He dropped his rifle and staggered back.

“Enough,” a deep voice sounded. Commander Hu approached, the red cape of his rank swimming behind him. “What’s going on here?”

“The girl is resistant,” a Collector reported. Hu studied her for a moment. Another cry of thunder roared out as the rain fell harder. Hu’s cape billowed as he turned on his heel.

“Execute her,” Hu said, his voice flat. He looked at Kufu. “You. Do it.”

Kufu’s heart hammered against his ribs. Feeling his hands tremble, he quickly stood straight and nodded. He walked toward Willow, each step heavy. He saw the fear in her eyes, the desperate plea, felt the mud squelch beneath his boots.

“It’s…you…” she whimpered, her voice soft and raspy.

Kufu squared himself toward her and watched her eyes fill with tears.

“Kufu…” she said. Without moving his head he glanced left and right. She had used his name, a name unknown to any of the others.

“Do it quickly,” Commander Hu said.

He took a deep breath, then another. There were ten of them in total. Of the villagers, there were at least fifty, maybe more. They were weak, but their strength together could be formidable. If he turned his gun on his Commander, then perhaps the other villagers would seize the opportunity.

He looked at the villagers. He saw old Man Tiber, his face a mask of grief. He saw the fear in the children’s eyes. He saw the Collectors, their faces blank. Black pools of nothingness shining in the rain. He thought of his new home in the gleaming city in the distance, built on the backs of people like this, his people. He thought of the comfortable life he had, the life he’d purchased with his silence. His willingness to join his oppressors.

One more deep breath.

He raises his rifle and squeezes the trigger. The shot rings out and the rain freezes. Hu staggers back, his hand clutching his chest. He takes a few clumsy steps and then collapses.

The wind whistles through the village and sizzles in the gripping silence. Then chaos erupts. Collectors turn, weapons raised. Kufu looks to Willow. “Run,” he says.

He then aims and shoots at the closest Collector, then another, and another. All three of them fall, but he feels a sharp bite in his shoulder and his arm goes limp. He dives toward a vegetable stand and takes cover. Cabbages explode around him and voices shout, mixing together like dense fog.

Kufu lifts his rifle atop a nearby barrel and aims, his other arm still hanging lifelessly at his side. To his delight, at least twenty villagers, including Willow, have overtaken the remaining Collectors. He stands and looks around. Four are dead, the rest disarmed. They have done it.

Willow turns and their eyes lock. The sun finally crawls out and reaches down as if to embrace them.

“Kufu!” she calls, a light of hope in her eyes. She begins to run toward him, her arms outstretched. He reaches for her.

“Do it quickly, I said!” It was Commander Hu. Kufu’s eyes went wide. He shook the driving rain from his visor.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Kufu! Please!” Willow screamed, her face flooded with tears.

He raised a hand to his lips.

“Shh,” he said, trying to calm her. But the promise felt like ash in his mouth.

He opened his eyes and squeezed the trigger.

The awful sound rings out and echoes like laughter amidst the booming thunder. Willow’s body slumped to the ground. A hand clasped Kufu’s shoulders.

“Well done,” Commander Hu said. “Now load up!”

COMPLICATION AT PARIS AIR SHOW

China will send J10 Vigorous Dragon.

J10C will meet the Rafale again.

The stories about PAF hitting 5 IAF jets has gone viral.

And the new star is J10C.

The less ‘glamarous’ J10c however will discreetly be placed in Hall 2. But it will get a lot of attention for its recent oustanding performance in Indo-Pakistan air combat.

And what a good deal at a fraction of the cost of a Rafale.

Imagine you can get 7 J10C for the price of one Rafale. Expect enough interest and orders.

Yes, it’s a bit complicated.

Ex Girlfriend Asks for Open Relationship, It Backfires

An “open relationship” is NOT a relationship. It is a “living agreement”, which works for some people, but you know, it’s not a relationship.

Interesting question.

I’d like to point out that, although almost everyone in China is atheist, the belief in supernatural phenomena, human special abilities, and the like far exceeds that of other countries.

If humanity’s belief in these phenomena is 100, China accounts for 99.

For example, if you’re Chinese with a PhD in physics and you dream of your grandfather standing before you, soaking wet, complaining that the house is leaking.

The next day, you visit his grave and find that a piece of cement has indeed collapsed, with muddy water seeping into his tomb.

You’d shrug, spend 200 yuan to hire a worker to fix the leak.

Then, you’d walk into school and continue teaching kids: “Children, today we’re learning a fascinating law: the force and reaction force between two interacting objects are equal in magnitude, opposite in direction, and act along the same line…”

And you wouldn’t feel anything unnatural about it.

That’s just how it is.

In the West, a “supernatural phenomenon” might cause a national sensation, but in China, it’s almost routine.

For instance, there’s a type of medicine unique to China called “Chinese medicine,” which stubbornly persists.

Most other countries only have “modern medicine.”

China’s different.

Traditional medicine, despite being heavily criticized by most scientists, thrives.

Is it effective?

I think so.

Visit the top Chinese medicine hospitals and check the obituaries—you’ll see plenty of these doctors living past 100.

Is it scientific? No, it’s not.

But it works.

My child was sick, and we spent hundreds of thousands of yuan, visiting the best hospitals in Beijing—Peking Union Medical College Hospital, Beijing Third Hospital—and they couldn’t even diagnose the illness!

At 4 a.m., holding my child, I was frantic and in pain…..

Desperate, I went to the best Chinese medicine hospital.

An 80-year-old doctor had his students feel my child’s pulse, saying it was a classic case of some condition…

He was an expert, so the consultation fee was steep, nearly $50, and the medicine cost about $10 per dose.

After taking it, my child recovered! All for less than $100.

What can I say?

F=ma?!

I can’t explain it.

But it worked.

If it works, isn’t that enough?

The world may not be fully explainable by the math and physics we have now.

Brian Josephson, the 1973 Nobel Prize winner, believed the world might not be entirely explainable by current science.

China’s greatest scientist, Qian Xuesen, publicly supported research into human special abilities.

The head of National Taiwan University’s Electrical Engineering Department, Lee Si-chen, published similar studies and ended up ruined.

I can’t compare to these big names. But I believe it too. Why? Because I’ve encountered phenomena I can’t explain.

Unexplainable.

So now I believe: the world may not be fully accounted for by the math and physics we currently understand.

Perhaps it’s far more complex?

Interestingly, if you believe in China’s traditional “feudal superstitions,” things seem easier to explain.

It may be one of the arguments in the US, but it isn’t a good one. It just makes us look like assholes. Should poor people die in fires because they don’t pay taxes? Should the police ignore assaults on them because they don’t pay taxes? Should their children be denied schooling?

Foreign countries with UHC view medical care much the same as they do any of their other public safety programs. It is something that benefits society as a whole. UHC costs less than our system. It is incredibly stupid to pay more for something because you don’t want it to be available to people you believe deserve to suffer and die because they are poor.

Pictures

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“He’s still a little boy,” my neighbor Ms. Barnes said.

I was driving a car. Ms. Barnes and my Mom sat in the backseat, talking with each other. Suddenly, the conversation shifted to Ms. Barnes’ 27-year old son—Junior.

My Mom asked, “How’s Junior doing?”

Ms. Barnes sighed. “He can’t cook. He can’t do the laundry. I still have to drive him to work every morning. My God, I worry about him every day.”

Then my Mom gently asked, “Do you think he’ll grow out of it soon?”

And Ms. Barnes said, “I’m not sure. Maybe when he gets married. I think he just needs a good woman to take care of him.”

I stayed silent.

Because what I wanted to say was: he doesn’t need a wife—he needs to grow up.

Everyone in the neighborhood knew Junior’s story.

We watched Ms. Barnes drive him to office. We watched him put his dish in the sink, but never wash it. We watched him get everything handed to him since he was a kid.

Junior wasn’t a bad person.

But he was stuck. In every way that mattered, he was still the child his mother never let grow up.

That conversation taught me a brutal truth:

Spoiled children don’t turn into adults.

They just grow older. They age, but they don’t mature. They’re physically strong, but can be as helpless as little kids.

Sometimes, they end up as everyone’s laughingstock.

Unless they actually grow up, they’ll always be children.

Forever.

Wife Caught Cheating on Vacation on Perfect Husband

The lies.

The deception.

Sad when you read the title you are like, I think I already heard this story, but no. Different girl same story.

The “relationships” these days are truly amazing, disgusting… but addictive. Oh Lordy! Yuppur all of human society is in full collapse.

  1. Get the f*ck out of Manhattan. Most New Yorkers live in the other four boroughs. In fact, Brooklyn has more people than Manhattan, and it’s got a lot of great stuff. So does Queens. The Bronx, not so much, but it still has stuff. Oh, but not Staten Island, stay away, but take the ferry there, just don’t stay there.
  2. Stay the f*ck out of Times Square. The only New Yorkers you will find there are (1) people who work there and (2) people on their way to a Broadway show. You want to find New Yorkers in a crowded place, go to Coney Island on a hot summer day. You can no longer get a Nathan’s Famous in Times Square, but you can get one at Coney Island.
  3. Crowds dissipate at the day goes on. Everyone goes to the biggest attractions at 10 in the morning, but many are open a lot longer than that. For example, at 6 p.m. the Empire State Building is not so busy and the views are still great.
  4. New York eating times are weird. Some restaurants aren’t busy at 5–7 but are later in the evening, like when the theatre crowd gets out. Most take reservations anyway and will be happy to accommodate you at off hours. In addition, a surprising number of places are open very late or very early.
  5. Stay in your hotel room from 4–6 p.m. on weekdays, otherwise you will be in the way of New Yorkers desperately trying to get home. Don’t even think about riding the subway towards Manhattan during the morning rush, or away from it during the afternoon rush. Don’t even think about riding buses during rush hour (it will be faster to walk).

Classic fried calzone.

Sausage and fresh mozzarella taste just like Italy in this classic fried calzone.

Panzerotti

Prep: 15 min | Bake: 15 min | Yield: 6 servings

Ingredients

  • 12 Rhodes White Dinner Rolls, thawed to room temperature
  • 12 large slices fresh mozzarella
  • 1/2 pound Italian sausage, browned
  • Marinara sauce, for dipping
  • Oil, for frying
  • Salt and pepper, to taste

Instructions

  1. Combine 2 rolls together and roll out into a 9 inch circle on a sprayed surface.
  2. Place two pieces of mozzarella on half of the circle leaving a clean edge. Cover cheese with sausage. Top with salt and pepper.
  3. Fold the other half of the dough over the filled half and use a fork to press edges together to seal. Fold the sealed edges 1/4-inch at a time to be sure the edges stay sealed.
  4. Heat oil to 350 degrees F. Fry each panzerotti in hot oil for 5 to 7 minutes on each side or until golden brown.
  5. Remove from oil and drain on a cooling rack with paper towels underneath.
  6. Serve warm with marinara sauce.

Attribution

Recipe and photo used with permission from: Rhodes Bake-N-Serv

The PL-15 Missile, Which Has Caused Major Problems for India and Dassault’s Rafale, Actually Has Strong Ties to the US

In essence, it was the Americans who pushed for the development and deployment of this missile.

The history of the PL-15 missile dates back to before 2005. Through interviews with Chinese engineers and memoirs written in recent years, we learn that about 20 years ago, the Chinese noticed that Raytheon, an American company, had introduced a new concept for an air-to-air missile, which later became the AIM-120D.

According to public promotional materials, this missile used an unprecedented “dual-pulse solid rocket engine,” overcoming the problem of reduced terminal velocity and rapid decline in lethality that traditional missiles faced. It extended the missile’s effective range to over 200 kilometers, a 50% improvement over its previous model. It also integrated many new technologies such as bi-directional data links and thrust vector control. Even more surprising was that its weight remained around 160 kilograms, making it suitable for almost all types of fighter jets. This missile was expected to be fully deployed in the U.S. Air Force and Navy by 2013.

At that time, China had just begun mass production of its latest missile model, the PL-12. However, its range was only about 100 kilometers, and it was heavier than the AIM-120D with a more outdated guidance system. Even when compared to the U.S.’s previous generation AIM-120C, it was not advantageous.

In the Chinese imagination, a future confrontation between Chinese and American fifth-generation fighters seemed inevitable. If the gap in weapon capabilities was this large, the only fate for Chinese pilots would be massacre.

Thus, China hastily established the PL-15 project, with a single goal: to reach the AIM-120D’s level within ten years (they didn’t even consider surpassing it).

However, the technological requirements were far beyond China’s capabilities. One engineer recalled that over the course of six years, their development of a new “dual-pulse solid engine” faced setbacks, with 47 consecutive failed experiments. The project leader, disappointed, reported to superiors: “We can’t reach the American level. I recommend lowering the technological requirements.”

After modifying the missile’s maximum weight to “no more than 200 kilograms,” progress was finally made. In a 2013 test launch, the missile successfully intercepted a target and maintained a speed of Mach 5 at a range of 200 kilometers, with a maximum range of 250 kilometers. The planned bi-directional data link, anti-jamming, and high overload technologies were also successfully implemented.

That engineer remembered: “It was so difficult, but we finally succeeded. Unfortunately, the missile turned out to be longer and heavier than originally designed, lacking the American thrust vectoring technology due to our technical limitations. But luckily, it still fits in the J-20’s internal weapons bay, and at least it’s effective.”

But a dramatic twist occurred. Raytheon faced almost the

same issues when developing the AIM-120D as the Chinese engineers did. The planned “dual-pulse solid rocket engine” failed to operate properly, and all the missiles produced were stored in a warehouse, unable to pass tests. After a three-year delay, the AIM-120D finally entered service in 2016 after switching to a new propellant supplier and changing the design. However, by this time, the missile had undergone significant changes from its initial concept.

The “dual-pulse solid rocket engine” was canceled and replaced with the same engine used in previous models. The bi-directional data link was removed, thrust vector control was eliminated, and anti-jamming capabilities were reduced. Most critically, the missile’s range was cut down to 160 kilometers, with a maximum range of 180 kilometers.

When the AIM-120D was deployed, the Chinese were shocked: “How did it turn out differently than what was promised?”

In 2017, General Herbert Carlisle of the U.S. Air Force’s Air Combat Command stated at a Congressional hearing: “The PL-15 makes all of our current fighter jets obsolete.” This wasn’t an exaggeration. Pentagon simulations showed that the F-35’s survival rate dropped by 60% when facing the J-20 equipped with PL-15 missiles. Aviation Week labeled it a “game-changing weapon.” The Pentagon was forced to accelerate the development of the “AIM-260” project, a secret missile program that was accidentally exposed because the Pentagon needed to urgently apply for funding.

However, some military experts and professional media outlets believe that the technical specifications claimed by China might be false and “simply impossible.” After all, China’s air-to-air missiles have almost no combat experience, and there is no confirmed data on them downing enemy aircraft. The countries possessing these missiles are almost limited to China and Pakistan. Compared to similar weapons from the U.S., Europe, and Russia, many air forces worldwide consider China’s missiles to be a minor player.

In 2025, during the India-Pakistan conflict, the PL-15E launched by the Pakistan Air Force consecutively shot down Indian Rafales, SU-30MKIs, and Mirage 2000s. Although India continued to deny these losses, information from Dassault, Martin-Baker, and social media corroborated these shootdowns. U.S. and European military monitoring agencies also confirmed these kills.

According to publicly available information from the Chinese Air Show, the PL-15E is a simplified version of the PL-15, with reduced propellant, giving the missile a range of only 150 kilometers. The missile fragments discovered in India, however, were from early production models from 2015. These fragments were found deep within Indian territory, often tens of kilometers inside, proving that Pakistan launched them from 100-200 kilometers away, so Indian radar was unable to detect or lock onto the attacking aircraft.

Now, no one doubts the technological level of the PL-15. It is now considered the most powerful air-to-air missile currently in mass production worldwide. Its price is only half that of its international counterparts, and China is even willing to sell its assembly lines.

As of 2024, countries that have purchased the PL-15E include Pakistan, Saudi Arabia, the UAE, and Myanmar. Algeria, Iran, and Serbia also seem to have some interest.

After the India-Pakistan air combat, the missile’s capabilities shocked the world, and its customer base is likely to rapidly increase, possibly alongside the J-10C fighter jet.

Mediterranean Cheese Foldovers

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Prep: 25 min | Cook: 16 to 20 min | Yield: 16 servings

Ingredients

  • 1 1/4 cups (6 ounce container) crumbled garlic-and-herb Feta cheese
  • 1/2 cup (2 ounces) finely shredded Romano cheese
  • 1/4 cup finely chopped green onions (4 medium)
  • 2 tablespoons finely chopped ripe olives
  • 1 egg
  • 1 egg, separated
  • 1 (16.3 ounce) can Pillsbury Grands!® Flaky Layers Refrigerated Buttermilk Biscuits
  • 1 teaspoon water
  • 2 teaspoons sesame seed

Instructions

  1. Heat oven to 350 degrees F. Lightly grease a large cookie sheet with shortening or spray with cooking spray.
  2. In a medium bowl, mix both cheeses, onions and olives. Mash with fork to break up any large chunks of cheese.
  3. Stir in 1 egg and 1 egg white with a fork until well combined.
  4. Separate dough into 8 biscuits; separate each evenly into 2 layers, making 16 biscuit rounds. Press each into 3 1/2-inch dough round.
  5. Spoon about 1 rounded tablespoon cheese mixture onto center of each dough round.
  6. Fold dough in half over filling; press edges to seal.
  7. Place on greased cookie sheet.
  8. In a small bowl, beat egg yolk and water with fork until well blended; brush over dough foldovers.
  9. Sprinkle sesame seed over each.
  10. Bake for 16 to 20 minutes or until golden brown.
  11. Cool for 5 minutes.
  12. Remove from cookie sheet; place on serving platter.
  13. Garnish platter with parsley and several olives.
  14. Serve warm.

Attribution

Recipe and photo used with permission from: American Dairy Association

Lynette Russell, Sun Prairie, Wisconsin, America’s Greatest Cheese Recipe Award Winner 41st Pillsbury Bake-Off® Contest, 2004

Not likely. China surpassed Russia in tech more than a decade ago, and in making decent jet engines about seven or eight years ago, although the trend was already in play a decade plus ago. Fifth and sixth gen is all about network-centric warfare, ie each thing is a sensor talking to other sensors, whether that’s a man, a plane, a drone, or an ordinance. Many years ago now, the US demonstrated drones feeding information to a ship, which launched a tomahawk cruise missile, which received an update from an F 35 in the vicinity of the target before impact. That kind of stuff. Precisely what the characteristics of a bomber are depends on one’s strategy. There have certainly been upgrades to the B-52, for example, but the fact that it’s a 65+ year old frame doesn’t matter. The weapons it carries just need a ride. The plane gets air launched cruise missiles and air launched ballistic missiles within their respective range.

Eternity and the Kettle Song

Written in response to: Start or end your story with a character making a cup of tea for themself or someone else.

Hugh Bezemer

I sometimes visit a perfect recollection of that night. An echo, embossed by my years of study and still remembered by the atoms of my aging body. My instinct, of course, as I lifted my head from the damp pillow into the deep silence of my childhood bedroom, darkened by blackout blinds, was to brace for the sudden spike in heart rate, loneliness and the inexorable dread that had been waking me since I had moved back into my parents’ house. On that night, the 30th of January 2025, seven minutes and 43 seconds passed before I realised that my fists were clenched by my side and my teeth were set down hard against one another; but I hadn’t needed to adopt this fighting stance. So, I sunk back into my mattress and a softness crept into the edges of my eyes; a sense that, even through the darkness, I was beginning to make out the shape of something.A few days before that I had read (I should stop doing that — it was an Instagram reel) that in 2022, in a study that won the Nobel prize in physics, professors somewhere had proved that local reality isn’t real. That night I was still an ignorant layman and the esoteric concepts did take a while to filter down to me. Even though I had spent longer than I’d meant to on my feed, trying to meet those mythical popular physics presenters halfway as they explained the concept, I’m not sure I’d got all that much closer to understanding the implications. The best I could do was this: we think of an object as either green or red, or in possession of some property, BUT, because of some unbreakable symmetry with its quantum particle pair, this can change instantaneously, faster than light travels, on the basis of a symmetrical change on the other side of the universe. The things we perceive about an object are not fixed to that object, but dance around as reflections, distant whirs of one another.Before those endless afternoons of scrolling through posts and waking in the middle of the night fearful and crying, I had spent six months in your flat, seldom brushing my teeth, barely leaving the bed, in unwashed pyjamas, trying to find something that felt worth doing. Those months had been hard and beautiful. We’d had two beagles then, with big watery eyes and slobbery cheerful tongues, your mother brought me things she thought I might like when she travelled to England, you made me tea in mugs we’d painted together on brighter days. A sweet life in the haze. On a lot of those evenings, after you got home from work, you’d try to say something, try to point out that you felt it too, try to hold my hand. I wanted it to work, I wanted to say the right thing at the right time, and we’d both know what we wanted for ourselves and for each other and for the dogs, but instead, we’d sit and watch a show or look at our phones for a while with the space between us folding; approaching infinity.Close to midnight, at the end of that impossible January, I had drawn my eyes back into a squint in the darkness and realised that, unlike the night before and all the painful nights preceding, none of that tarnished rose gold light that had so often crept into my vision remained. The sense that I needed to return to the soft warmth of our shared bed before I’d ever sleep again had vanished. What was there didn’t circle and demand justice with ominous spectral gestures. I could hear something, a hum, as though I had found myself suspended at that point in the oscillation of a rubber band where on either side it crests to a tense and taught amplitude but for an immeasurable instant is perfectly still.The sound seemed to vanish but then, like a deep sonorous breath, it returned. As I lay there listening to that strange resonant rise and fall, the pattern emerged. I rushed over to the kitchen, flicking my tongue back and forth in my mouth to keep the time and sound it out; gripped by the thought that this might vanish from me like so many details from so many dreams. I found pots and pans. They wouldn’t do for the pitch. Maybe glasses part filled with water? No. Then there on the counter: the recorder. I’d used it to learn how to play Hot Cross Buns in third grade. I picked it up and put it to my lips. Froze. Remembered a crucial step. I filled the kettle and put it on the stove, counted 23 beats and began to play, softly blowing out the tune I had been transposing from the air around me. The moment the kettle’s whistle chimed in; I knew what everything meant.I never told my parents why they had found me, ecstatic and naked at three o’clock in the morning, accompanying their kettle’s deafening whistle on a dusty spittle-drenched recorder. Why I had laughed maniacally afterwards, drinking my tea and watching the sunrise. They were concerned for a while and my mum would cautiously try to raise it for months whenever she perceived me to be calm and collected, though I seldom was. In every quiet moment, I was listening to those resonances.My parents were surprised but satisfied, proud and relieved, as parents of physicists tend to be, when I moved here to CERN following my studies.The first song I heard had not been mine. It was the bridge between you and the fixed point to which you travelled, each small vibration mapping the decisions you’d make, the people you’d love, every detail down to the rakish angle of a stray eyebrow hair you’d grow in your late thirties.The next was mine. Once I had tuned myself to that frequency it became quite simple. Over the years I’ve gone through the necessary terminology of quarks, lectured on quantum entanglement, buttered up the right engineers and research institutes. I don’t like to brag, but if this didn’t work and tomorrow arrives, the Pentagon would scarcely be able to afford a single pair of camouflage bike shorts, or whatever else it is they spend their massive budget on.I’m sure this will never be read but if it is I am sorry, dear reader, today I feel like letting it all out, as these languid celebratory polemics, despite their futility. It has been a long time since an entry in this journal has been so necessary or so blissfully self-indulgent. I’ve been pontificating. I’ve tended to recapitulate and adapt the research of my colleagues, ventilate about their parochial focus, or half-heartedly meditate on my designs. I also sometimes write an entertaining parody of Dr. Žižek, who believes I will singlehandedly bring about the cessation of existence. The old fool would miss his imported cheese and pickles very dearly. None of it worthy. Tomorrow, however, is special, it will be for a while the 31st of January 2054, until I decide that it is again the 31st of January 2025. They will never know that I have built and will build again and again, an instrument on which only I can play out the perfect tune of time.It’s funny, you thought all those seemingly arbitrary coincidences excluded the possibility of God, but in many senses, I have become an intentional and conscious creator. I call the next round. You wouldn’t understand the working or the proofs, but for you it probably suffices as an explanation to say that there will always be a rubber band that fixes you and your destiny. You will in every instance follow your band and tomorrow, when I press my rather comical big red button (you would have loved the facility I’ve designed), I get to decide how hard to strum the rubber. I couldn’t spare myself that small luxury.So, when the world is reborn on that first morning that I chose to forget you, I’ll sit in the warm sun, waiting for slow swirls to seep from my teabag, I’ll be met with a distinct chord and, without knowing what I’ve done, my eyes will glow with the mischief you claimed to love. I’ll whistle each subtly distinct note of the happy Sisyphus you’ll have to learn to be on a given go-round, lingering in the moment where I sip from my steaming mug and set myself on the path to divinity.

1980. I was 17, my then girlfriend Janet was 19 and my parents, both in their 50s, were fairly old fashioned, so when she stayed over on a weekend we maintained the fiction that she was sleeping in my bed and I was sleeping downstairs on the couch. The fact that I left her room pretty late (around 2am) and went in again to see her pretty early the next morning (around 6am) was never discussed. So, one Sunday morning I was in the bedroom with her. On my stereo was Blondie’s Parallel Lines album playing at pretty near full volume a) because I was a massive Blondie fan (and still am) and b) because it camouflaged any noise Janet made. She was quite a noisy girl if you get my meaning.

My parents were kind people, especially with my friends. Nobody ever went short of food or drink. So it was that my dad thought he’d bring Janet a nice cooked full English breakfast. Thanks to Debbie Harry’s vocals, not to mention Janet’s, I never heard him coming up the stairs or crossing the landing. The first I knew of his presence was when I heard him exclaim “Oh bloody hell!” as he caught me in flagrante delicto, or more prosaically, giving Janet one doggy style, with her holding onto the window ledge. My head spun around just in time to see dad retreating from the room backwards, pulling the door shut with his left hand. Unfortunately, his right hand held the breakfast tray, arm extended for balance, and such was his embarrassment and consternation, he slammed the door shut on his own arm, dumping bacon, eggs, beans, toast, coffee, condiments and cutlery all over my record player, the perspex lid of which was in the raised position. Blondie took the full force of it.

Subsequently, the incident was never mentioned, though after that, when Janet or subsequent girlfriends stayed over, breakfast was provided on the table downstairs, not in the bedroom. And I had to buy a replacement copy of Parallel Lines. I’ve still got it. Classic Blondie!

Sir Whiskerton and the Great Farm Fart-Off: A Tale of Toxic Talent, Bovine Bouquets, and the Case of the Vanishing Mailman

Ah, dear reader, steel your nostrils and ready your funny bones for a tale so pungent, so utterly windy, that even the scarecrow might need a gas mask. Today’s mystery begins with a sound—no, a symphony—of questionable origin, a farm in distress, and a detective who deeply regrets his life choices. So grab your clothespins, brace your stomachs, and join me for Sir Whiskerton and the Great Farm Fart-Off: A Tale of Toxic Talent, Bovine Bouquets, and the Case of the Vanishing Mailman.


The Incident

It began, as all great disasters do, with a single, ominous pfffft.

Sir Whiskerton was enjoying his morning sunbeam when the barn doors burst open. Rufus the Dog tumbled inside, ears flapping, tongue lolling, and—most alarmingly—grinning.

  • “WHISKERTON!” Rufus howled. “YOU GOTTA HEAR THIS!”

He turned, lifted a leg, and unleashed a sound like a deflating tuba.

BBBBRRRRAAAAAPPPPP!

The force of it knocked Sir Whiskerton’s monocle clean off.

  • “That wasn’t a fart,” Rufus panted proudly. “That was a symphony.”

  • “That,” Sir Whiskerton wheezed, “was a war crime.”

But Rufus wasn’t alone. Across the farm, animals were competing.

  • Bessie the Tie-Dye Cow floated by, leaving a trail of lavender-scented fog. “Peace and love, man… also, whoa, that one was organic.”

  • Porkchop the Pig had strapped a whoopee cushion to his back for “amplification.”

  • Doris the Hen was in hysterics, flapping and shrieking, “IT’S THE GEESE! I KNEW IT WAS THE GEESE!”

Even the Yodeling Fish had surfaced, adding their own aquatic bloops to the chaos.


The Investigation

Sir Whiskerton, holding a clothespin over his nose, interrogated the suspects.

  • “Who started this… contest?”

  • “Contest?” Bessie blinked. “Nah, man, it’s a vibe. A movement.”

  • “A movement?” Sir Whiskerton deadpanned. “Yes, I can smell the movement.”

Rufus proudly presented a “Fart Scoreboard” scratched into the barn wall:

  • Rufus: 8.5 (“Shook the barn!”)

  • Bessie: 7.0 (“Smells like a hippie’s dream”)

  • Porkchop: 9.2 (“Impressive duration”)

  • Doris: 0.5 (“Blames geese—unconfirmed”)

Then, the final clue: The mailman was missing.

  • “He ran,” Rufus admitted. “After my Symphony No. 3.”


The Resolution

Sir Whiskerton called an emergency farm meeting.

  • “This ends now,” he declared. “No more fart-offs. No more ‘symphonies.’ And someone find the mailman before he quits forever.”

  • “But Whiskerton,” Porkchop protested, “what about artistic expression?”

  • “Artistic oppression,” Doris muttered, fanning herself with a wing.

Just then, the farmer wandered in, sniffed the air, and sighed.

  • “Bartholomew the Piñata,” he whispered. “What fresh hell is this?”


The End.

Post-Credit Scene:
Chef Remy LeRaccoon unveils his latest invention: Fart-Powered Rocket Fuel™. The farm animals stare in horror as a single test launch sends a squirrel into orbit.


Best Lines:

  • “That wasn’t a fart—that was a symphony!” – Rufus, musical prodigy

  • “Mine smell like lavender… peace and love, man.” – Bessie, aromatic visionary

  • “IT’S THE GEESE!” – Doris, eternal conspiracy theorist


Starring:

  • Sir Whiskerton (Detective & Reluctant Sniff-Tester)

  • Rufus the Dog (Maestro of Flatulence)

  • Bessie the Cow (Tie-Dye Toots Specialist)


Key Jokes:

  • Porkchop’s whoopee cushion has a “Volume: 11” setting.

  • The missing mailman is later found living in a tree, muttering, “Never again… never again…”

  • The Yodeling Fish’s contributions are judged “Too watery—disqualified.”


Moral:

Sometimes, less is more—especially when it comes to audible talents.


P.S.

Remember: If life gives you lemons, make lemonade. If life gives you farts… open a window.

Well, chinese ports handled >330m TEU in 2024, continuing a strong upward trajectory of container volume since covid.

That is a historic one nation record for mankind.

Now, for some contrast.

The entire EU handled 80-90m TEU, while the US handled 40-50m TEU, including transshipment.

In terms of nominal GDP, the US is at 29t, the EU 20t, and china 19t.

But china is far and away the greatest manufacturing and trading nation today, especially in volume terms.

This is why china is called the world’s factory.

Imagine a nation with the logistic chops to handle the quantities china does, and the vital role it plays in the global supply chain.

China, if it wants to play rogue, can absolutely devastate the EU and US economies through export bans.

This is why I don’t understand the constant need for western politicians to keep up the pretense of staying tough on china.

If the dragon stirs, it won’t just be the beard getting singed.

For anyone harboring doubts, check back in the 2030s. There will be two kinds of goods then. China made and foreign made. China will be responsible for >50% Of global manufacturing output with a footprint that overlaps the entire portfolio of developed nations from widebody airliners to the most advanced chips.

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我在9/22(或可能再早幾天)的MM貼文下寫過小詮釋,在9/29寫大詮釋。
I’ve written the small interpretation (describe) in September 22 (or maybe more few days earlier) below of MM post, and the big interpretation in September 29.

摧毀輪迴之輪是在大詮釋之後。雖然當時我知道12月就會有消息,但我不想等那麼久;不過這比什麼都沒有好,所以我選擇妥協。
Destroyed the wheel of incornation is after big interpretation. Although in that time that I knew it’s would have message in December, I didn’t want to wating for so long; but it’s better than nothing, so I chose compromise.

我在某處寫到我要在宇宙的歷史/記憶斷層找到什麼。我忘了在哪裡,也忘了原句是什麼。
I’ve written somewhere that I want to find something out in the universal history / memories glitch. I forget where and what’s the original sentence.

我來講巨詮釋。
I’m going to say huge interpretation.

==========
巨詮釋:
Huge interpretation:

可能是因為矛盾或什麼原因,我直接存在。
It’s maybe contradiction or what reason that I exist directly.

這裡什麼都沒有。
Here’re with nothing.

所以我讓大家瞬間直接存在。
So I let everyone suddenly directly exist.

我想要大家帶有各式各樣的差異。
I want everyone that with various different.

(這只是方便我轉化成句子,實際上比較接近「大家存在」⇆「多樣」。)
(It’s just easy for me to generate that to the sentences. In actual, it’s more close to “everyone exist” ⇆ “various”.)

讓大家打造世界會比都是我自己打造好;而且探查到別人打造但我不知道的元素,才可能會有趣。如果整個世界完全由我打造,不只很麻煩;而且既然所有的東西我都非常清楚,那就不有趣。
Let everyone to build the world is better than all by myself; and detect the elements that others build but I don’t know, might only possible be interesting. (I don’t know how to translate to English better.) If I build entire world by myself, it’s not just really troublesome; but also that if everything I very clear know, then that’s not interesting.

而我又創造了模擬宇宙的主體架構,讓大家能以局部的自身投入扮演、參與模擬,讓量子元素、組件、組構更豐富。
And I create the major / main / core / base framework, let everyone can go in by partial of self and to be what, and involve with the simulation, let quanta elements, componentries / garbons, fabrics (of soul) more various.

和依是主要樣板,也是我們宇宙的精神。
和依 is the main template, and also as the spirit of / in our universe.

大家創造的現實泡泡宇宙,則會以最佳化存在於主體架構下的某處。(「下」不是指方位。)
The reality bubble universes that everyone create, are exist in optimization way under somewhere of the framework. (“Under” is not mean the direction.)

另一個和依是我在模擬宇宙中以和依精神打造的群體、模樣,而之後則是團域,所以和依是團域的一部分;不過在原始定義則超出團域,我習慣稱之為「廣義和依」。
Another 和依 is that I in the simulation universe create / build a group, shape, based on the 和依 spirit, and later is the Domain, so 和依 is part of the Domain; and in the original defination that is over the Domain, so I used to called it as “general / wide 和依”. (I don’t know how to say it in English.)

這個宇宙的主體架構只有我能修改。也許舊帝國及他們的前身想避免我直接動用世界系統,將他們從宇宙中驅逐或刪除。
Only me can change the major framework of this universe. Maybe the old empire and their previous group(s) want to avoid me to use the world system(s), to make expulsion or expunge them from the universe.

這個世界一直在創造過程。這裡是創造區,我們創造現實泡泡/世界線現實,讓世界更多彩、豐富。而當我們在各自的現實泡泡中,我們所覺察到的別人、東西,是由某個/某些元素(代碼)所展現的形態、特徵。在底層元素上,靈魂所分出/投入的意識本身,跟別的意識所覺察到的意識形象不同。我無法想像這個世界的「形狀、大小」;那都只是底層元素所描繪出的特徵,無法用於理解世界全貌。
This world is in the process of creating. Here’s the creating zone, we creating the reality bubbles / world-line realities, make the world be much colorful, generous. On the base-layer elements, that the consciousness(es) are diveded out / involve in from the soul(s) are different from the shape of consciousness which other consciounesses can detect. I can’t imagine the “shape, size” of this wolrd; those’re the characters that the base-layer elements describe, can not in use of the understanding for the completeness of world.

==========

解釋:
Explaination:

「團域」:由多個領域/區域/疆域/居住地/所在地/場域/團體/群體所組成的,成為巨大、團結、和諧的,集合成團的域。
The “Domain”: Combine by multiple domains / areas / territories / resident places / the places (we) at / zones / groups / assemblages, become the huge, cooperative, in harmony of the Domain(s) that as the combined group(s) / zone(s) /….

我覺得這很難解釋,句子也不好看。來寫本來要寫的句子。
I feel (think) it’s difficult to explain, and the sentences look not good. I’m going to write the original sentence I want to write.

「團域」:由多「域」組成「團」的「域」。成團的多域;成世界的多境界。
The “Domain”: By combine multiple “Domains” to the “group(s) to be the “Domain”. Be group the multiple Domains; be world the multiple realms / levels / degrees / ….

「和依」:和平、和諧的依託;世界合一。
The peace, harmony rely on; and world in merge be one. (I don’t know how to write it well in English.)

==========

Sounds (if very clear and without extension):
團域(The Domain):
International phonetic alphabet: [tʰʷu̯än˧˥] [yː˦˩]
Chinese phonetic symbols (Bopomofo) in horizontal: ㄊㄨㄢˊ ㄩˋ
(It’s better in vertical, but I can only show the horizontal of it here.)
Chinese phonetic alphabet (Hanyu Pinyin): Tuán Yù / Tuán’yù
My old standard: Thuan2 Yw4
My new standard: Tuan2 Y4

和依:
IPA: [χɤː˧˥] [ʔiː˥˥]
Bopomofo: ㄏㄜˊ ㄧ
Pinyin: Hé Yī / Hé'yī
My old standard: Hee2 I1
My new standard: He
2 I1

舊帝國(The old empire):
IPA: [t͡ɕi̯o̞u̯˦˩] [tiː˦˩] [ku̯o̞˧˥]
Bopomofo: ㄐㄧㄡˋ ㄉㄧˋ ㄍㄨㄛˊ
Pinyin: Jiù Dì Guó / Jiùdìguó
My old standard: Ciou4 Ti4 Kuo2
My new standard: Ciou4 Ti4 Kuo2

Why I made my standard?

CoVid NiNeTeen:
My old standard: [t̪͡ɕ̻ɔː˥˥ vit̚˥] [nĩː˥˥ nẽ̞˥˥ tɤn˥˥]
My new standard: [t̪͡ɕ̻ɔː˥˥ vit̚˥] [nĩː˥˥ nẽ̞˥˥ tʰɤn˥˥]
Co1Vid1 Ni1Ne1Teen1

DoNaLD TrumP:
Old standard: [do̞ː˥˥ nä̃˥˥ lɤː˧˧ dɤː˧˧] [ʈʷum˥˥ puː˧˧]
New standard: [do̞ː˥˥ nä̃˥˥ lɤː˧˧ dɤː˧˧] [t̠ʰɹʷum˥˥ pʰuː˧˧]
Do1Na1L7D7 Trum1P7

“ChiNa ViRuS” The BioLoGiCaL WeAPon OF The UNi. STa. OF AMe.
New standard: [t̪͡ɕ̻ĩː˥˥ nä̃ː˥˥ viː˥˥ ɻ̍ʷ˥˥ s͆s̬͆ː˧˧ tʰẽ̞ː˥˥ bjo̞˥˥ lo̞ː˥˥ gɨː˥˥ t̪͡ɕ̻äː˥˥ lɤː˧˧ we̞˧˥ ʔäː˧˧ pʰo̞n˥˥ ʔo̞ː˧˧ fuː˧˧ tʰẽ̞ː˥˥ ʔuː˧˧ nĩː˥˥ s͆s̬͆ː˧˧ tʰäː˥˥ ʔo̞ː˧˧ fuː˧˧ ʔäː˧˧ mẽ̞ː˥˥]

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