We used to use a Triangle can opener.
Back in the day, the use of triangle can openers were being displaced by pop-top pull tabs. And for a brief wile (when I started drinking) the both existed side by side.
Do you remember these things?
They would often leave this triangle shaped hole in the op of the beer can. Ah, It would look something like this…
Of course, we don’t need or use these things today. Except maybe for oil in a car. Anyways, memories of the past. I hope that you enjoy this walk through “memory lane”.
Today…
How does being in prison change you mentally and emotionally?
In 2006, I was sentenced to 66 years and 8 months, a reality that once seemed insurmountable. My sentence could be divided into three distinct seven-year periods, each marking a profound transformation in my life.
The first seven years were spent trying to defend the false persona I had become, clinging to an identity shaped by my past. In 2009, after exhausting all avenues for relief, I learned that my father’s wife had only 90 days to live.
At that moment, overwhelmed and exhausted, I attempted to take my own life by overdosing on opiates. Surviving that experience forced me to confront myself in a way I never had before.
I made the conscious decision to turn inward, realizing that my external world was merely a projection of my inner state.
For the next seven years, I immersed myself in teachings on self-development and self-transformation, seeking to understand and change the patterns that had shaped my life.
The final period of my incarceration was dedicated to investing in those around me, striving to change the culture of the institutions I was in.
This proactive stance was often met with hostility, and in 2019, I was seriously assaulted and hospitalized. But rather than harbor resentment or seek revenge, I recognized myself in my attackers.
I prayed for them to find the same inner peace I had discovered. Moving forward, I dedicated myself fully to developing programs focused on coaching, leadership, mentoring, and service, all rooted in the principles of servant leadership.
My actions in what would become the final years of my incarceration were selfless—I sought no personal gain, only to uplift those around me.
This conscious choice, made without expectation of reward, ultimately became the key that opened the gates, allowing me to return home 45 years early.
On December 19, 2024, the court reduced my sentence to time served, recognizing my dedication to transformation—not just of myself, but of those I had the privilege to guide.
Southern Sweet Potato Pudding
If desired, spoon about 1/3 cup bourbon over pudding just before serving, or top with 2/3 cup miniature marshmallows and bake 5 minutes longer to melt marshmallows.
Yield: 12 servings
Ingredients
- 6 cups grated sweet potatoes (about 3 medium)
- 2 1/2 cups milk
- 3 large eggs, slightly beaten
- 1 cup light brown sugar
- 2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
- 2 teaspoons vanilla extract
- 1/2 cup lightly toasted chopped almonds
- 1 teaspoon grated orange peel
- 2 tablespoons softened butter or margarine
Instructions
- In bowl, combine sweet potatoes, milk, eggs, sugar, cinnamon and vanilla extract. Blend well.
- Stir in almonds and orange peel.
- Spoon into buttered 2 quart shallow baking dish. Dot with butter.
- Bake at 300 degrees F for 1 1/2 hours or until pudding is set.
- Serve hot with country ham or roasted chicken.
What if China tried to invade and colonize America and killed the inhabitants there?
The possibility of that is zero.
We have to start by looking at history.
Historically, the United States helped China fight against Japanese invaders.
This is an incredibly complex topic, and I don’t really want to dive too deep into it, but at the very least, in the end, America used its overwhelming national strength to crush Japan with ease.
Did you know that Curtis Emerson LeMay, the commander of the Tokyo firebombing, is highly regarded by many Chinese people?
Claire Lee Chennault is practically worshipped as a hero here.
And Paul Warfield Tibbets, the pilot who dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima—I personally think he’s a superhero.
Recently, because of the Palestine issue, there’s been some negative chatter among Chinese internet users about Jewish people.
But then there’s Evan Kail (pawn.man), an American Jew who donated historical photos of the Nanjing Massacre to China.
For that, he was gifted a national-level ceremonial porcelain piece by the Chinese government (we jokingly say it’s like a “2012 survival ticket” for him and his family—half kidding, half serious).
He was even invited to attend our Spring Festival Gala.
When he came to China, tens of thousands of people welcomed him.
Even at the height of anti-Jewish sentiment on the Chinese internet over the Palestine situation, not a single person—not one—said anything, explicitly or implicitly, against him being Jewish. 0,Zero. Nada.
It’s the same with America.
Ordinary Americans haven’t massacred us or enslaved us.
There’s no bad blood between us. In fact, you’ve even helped us out big time—so why would we want to slaughter you?
That doesn’t make sense.
Sure, the U.S. government has its issues, but that’s no big deal.
We can team up with you and take down this reactionary, corrupt government that’s trying to enslave the people of the world. Problem solved.
A while back, when the U.S. government banned TikTok, a bunch of American TikTok users flocked to another Chinese app, Xiaohongshu (Little Red Book).
I don’t use these social media platforms myself, but there was this one quote that was so good, Chinese netizens kept reposting it everywhere.
I saw it too, and I thought it was really well said.
It went something like this: “No matter how the politicians of our two countries try to deceive us in the future, please, please remember today. We’re so happy right now, and we’re all just ordinary people.”
Girlfriend Thought She Could Cry Her Way Out Of Selling Pics Of Herself Online, SHOCKED When BF…
Bunny
Submitted into Contest #279 in response to: Center your story around a person who believes they’re the last human on Earth.… view prompt
Oliver Gray
The Bunny loves me, this I know,
for the Bunny tells me so.
Little ones to him belong;
they are weak, but he is strong.
Yes, Bunny loves me! Yes, Bunny loves me!
Yes, Bunny loves me! The Fucking Bunny tells me so.
Bradley tried to laugh and succeeded in only in dribbling spittle out of his mouth and blowing a glob of shiny, yellow-green snot from his nose. Both went sliding down the right side of his whiskered face.
I am the king of all creation, he thought. The emperor of whatever. The duke of who-fucking-cares. There’s so much shit I could go do. So much shit.
He thought that he could head on over to the Ford dealership on State Road 3 and get himself a sweet new ride. A truck, maybe. One of those big sonsabitches. The ones with the monster-sized cabs and the extra pair of wheels on the back. Or, maybe, he reasoned, I’ll grab a Mustang. The one he’d seen a few weeks back, right out there in the front under the little green and red and yellow and blue plastic flags. The bright fuckin’ red ‘Stang. The kind with the big ass V8. The ‘Five-O’.
Yeah.
That’s the one, he told himself. That’s what I’ll get. A sweet fuckin’ 1982 Mustang GT. Candy-apple fuckin’ red. That’d turn heads, for sure.
If there were any heads left to turn.
But there weren’t.
Cause Bradley Honaker was the last motherfucker alive.
The Bunny fuckin’ said so.
The big white and brown fucker with the soft-ass fur and the huge goddamned ears.
When had that big bastard last stopped by?
Bradley tried to think, but he couldn’t force his mind to latch onto that particular thread. It kept drifting on him, like the haze at the far edge of the blacktop on a blazing hot summer day.
I used to like those days, he remembered. Used to love summer. Riding bikes out by the quarry on Spiceland Pike. Little League games on the diamonds next to Castle Elementary.
“Those were the days,” Bradley mumbled. “The days of our lives.”
He tried to chuckle again and dribbled just a little more spit down his unshaven cheek and onto the greasy, orange shag carpet. Bradley thought about getting up. Thought about moving from his spot on the floor. Thought about maybe getting dressed. And maybe, just maybe headin’ on down to that car lot and getting himself that ‘Stang.
Yeah, he thought. Just take the ‘Stang. Take it right off the lot. Fuck whoever it was that owned the place. Fuck ‘em. I deserve a new ride. Deserve it.
All the shit I did for these folks, he thought. For the folks of Burdock.
Yeah.
Kept ‘em all done up.
All of ‘em. Whatever they needed. Whatever they wanted. A little pot here and there. Mostly for the kids at Burdock Senior High. Go fuckin’ Rams. Acid, too. Though not as much of that. Not many kids into that scene. Or grown-ups, for that matter.
Nah.
Weed was king for the young-uns. And Bradley kept the flow runnin’. Kept it nice and steady.
Freaked out about exams?
Have a joint.
Big game comin’ up?
Puff, puff, give, Babycakes.
Bradley met that need.
But that’s not where the real wheelin’ and dealin’ happened. Not why he deserved that big, beautiful ’82 ‘Stang.
Naw.
Not even close.
“It’s the heavies, man,” he murmured. “The fuckin’ heavy hitters.”
The folks he kept supplied with the big guns.
Speedballs and Apple Jack. Special K and fuckin’ ‘Ludes, dude. And, for the very biggest and bestest clients—like the goddamned Mayor—a little Black Tar now and again.
Bradley’s mind began drifting again, a sappy grin folded itself across his grimy face. His eyes wandered, up from the sea of orange fibers in front of him, to the far wall.
Goddamn, he thought. When the hell did I paint the wall that color? What color is that?
He tried to focus on the wall, tried hard, for all of eight seconds.
Or maybe, eight days.
Bradley didn’t know and he didn’t particularly care.
It was nice here on the floor. Really fuckin’ nice. The carpet was thick and soft and fluffy. Like a cloud. Like those big damned clouds you see in the summer. The ones that just sit up there in the big blue sky. All puffy and swollen and fat.
Maybe, he thought, I’ll get the new ride tomorrow.
“Yeah,” he mumbled. “Get the ride t‘morrow…”
Can’t get there today, anyhow, he told himself. Too far. Too far to walk. Too far to walk and this orange cloud on my floor is nice and soft…
And besides, he thought, the ‘Stang ain’t going nowhere. Nobody left to sell it. Nobody left to buy it.
“Cause I’m the last motherfucker alive,” he said. “Motherfuckin’ Bunny told me so.”
He chuckled for a moment and coughed once. He felt his head swirl and swim and saw the far wall start to melt away. It was warm here on the floor. Nice and warm and all cozy. Like hoppin’ into a running car in the dead of winter with the heat on full blast. Like climbing into a nice, deep, hot bath.
Or better yet, like sinkin’ into a tub of warm oil. All nice and wrapped-up and snug and…
Bradley wriggled a little, worked to burrow himself deeper into the embrace of the mass of orange fibers surrounding him. His mind briefly wondered what the carpet was made of.
Soft, he decided. It is made of soft. Soft and warm.
Those are things, he thought, that a carpet should be made of.
Soft and warm.
Soft.
Bradley’s breathing shallowed. His eyes drifted, fluttered, and then closed. His body relaxed. His face settled, turned slightly, eased down into the pile of vomit and hair and deep, soft, orange carpet.
*****
The noise woke Bradley, sent his heart rate rocketing into the stratosphere.
“Tha fuck?” he muttered into the carpet.
The sound came again, jarring and repetitive and fucking loud. Bradley could not place it. Not at first.
What the hell, he asked himself, makes that sound?
The sound came a third time, long before Bradley could begin making a list of possible causes.
Bradley tried to push himself upright, found that his arms were sore. Well, he corrected himself, one arm is sore. The other is out cold. Numb as hell. Dead and rubbery and Christ-on-a-crutch heavy. Bradley tried to throw himself over, onto his back, but was stopped by the massive edifice that was the coffee table. He tried to roll to his belly and succeeded after three attempts.
The banging noise returned, a hard, grating, whamming sound.
What in the hell is that? he thought.
Bradley was startled to discover that he could not breathe, realized his body was screaming for air. He flung his head to the side, inhaled in a lurch, and coughed. The side of his face was cold. Cold and wet.
And holy God, what was that fuckin’ smell?
Vomit, his mind reported. Ice cold vomit. Good thing you propped yourself up against mom’s old coffee table, Bradley, old boy. Mighta drowned in that shit.
The obnoxious banging returned around the same time the numb and dead arm moved from rubbery to prickly. Bradley tried to shove himself upright again and mostly succeeded. He looked around, not for the source of the banging. Not for anything really. Just looking.
Fuck, Bradley, my man, it’s cold as shit in here.
Bradley felt himself shiver. He shifted in his spot, slowly, painfully. The prickly arm was screaming for attention. Yelling for it as the feeling sublimated again, moving to something Bradley’s mind couldn’t describe. Music was playing, drifting to him. He worked to place it while his okay arm and hand held the angry one close and still.
Born on the Bayou, buddy. CCR. Good tune.
Bradley started to smile at the revelation, but was stopped by the banging noise.
Whammo-whammo-whammo.
Whammo-whammo-whammo.
What the…? he started to ask himself.
Bradley’s stomach heaved and he leaned forward to let the bile fall free. It dripped and dribbled and mostly clung to his scraggly beard. His stomach contracted again, harder this time, trying to expel shit that was not there. More bile raced up his esophagus, burning and boiling. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes. He retched a second time. And a third. A fourth. Fifth. Sixth. He swiped at his mouth with his good, bare forearm, letting the angry one rest in his lap, feeling the millions of pins and needles there.
Wham-wham-wham.
Bradley felt his head recoil at the noise, his brain torn between a half-hearted attempt to identify the racket and the need to find and shitcan the little bastard racing around the inside of his skull with a jackhammer.
His eyes closed briefly, trying to block out any and all sensory input. That only partially worked. The music still came to him—Jimi, now, ravaging a guitar—and the whamming noise continued.
Bradley was shaking, his body, he thought, reacting to the damned-near Arctic temperatures in the room.
Why the hell is it so cold? he thought again.
His mind tried to focus on that question before another bout of nausea assaulted him. He tried to shift his position, tried to scrabble sideways, and succeeded only in driving his filthy tighties halfway up his ass-crack. Bradley didn’t bother trying to pick the wedgie loose. He leaned forward and let the last of the bile drip free.
Wham-wham-wham.
The door, Bradley’s mind screamed. That’s the sound of someone banging on the front door.
“Fuckin’ Bunny,” Bradley muttered. “Furry-ass motherfucker.”
Bradley pushed himself up, tried to get his legs under his ass, and made it only as far as the top of the coffee table. He rested his nearly-naked ass on the frozen surface. He looked down, saw his own thin legs, pale and hairy and stained. There was a cut on one knee, a thin one. Bright red down the middle, same as that ’82 ‘Stang on the Ford lot. Pink on the sides, though. And swollen.
When did I…? he wondered.
Bradley saw the needles, tried to focus on them. Saw one with the tip bent ninety-degrees out of true. Saw a second one with the plunger missing.
And a third…
Bradley smiled, started to reach down for the needle and the dark brown syrupy liquid inside.
Whammo-whammo-whammo-whammo-whammo-whammo…
Bradley cringed at the noise, took three attempts to get to his feet, and shuffled to the door, one hand holding his own ribs and the other clutching at his sagging underpants.
Whammo-whammo-whammo-whammo-whammo-whammo…
Bradley coughed. He reached out a thin arm, snagged the doorknob on the second try, and twisted it. He peered out into the gray light of a cold February day at the figure on his porch.
Sure, as shit, he thought. It was the Fuckin’ Bunny.
Only…
*****
“What do you want?”
The man posing that question was, as Jimmy Butler had imagined, a shifty-looking good-for-nothing. He had nervous eyes, Jimmy saw, dark and partially hidden behind a half-open front door and a ratty, battered screen. The kind of eyes that darted here and there looking for danger and a quick lie. Eyes that would search everywhere, glance at everything.
Except me, Jimmy told himself. Those eyes will not look at me.
“Special Agent Butler, FBI,” Jimmy said, aware that that whole spiel sounded obliquely threatening. He was also aware that he hadn’t answered the man’s question.
*****
Goddamnit, Bradley thought, the Fuckin’ Bunny is a goddamned G-man now. Or G-Bunny. G-hare?
“What do you want?”
*****
“I need to talk to you about something,” Jimmy said, truthfully.
He looked at the tiny man hiding behind ninety-nine bucks of fake wood and a holey screen and became aware that the scrawny fucker was wearing nothing but underpants that had, maybe, last seen the clean laundry pile during the Carter Administration. It was, Jimmy thought, both sad and disgusting. But both judgements were irrelevant at the moment. Bradley—Jimmy didn’t have a last name for this guy, knew him only by reputation and simply as Mr. Bradley—was in deep shit.
That tended to happen when you helped rip off a local bookie with connections to half of Vegas.
*****
“About what?” Bradley asked.
Why couldn’t this Easter Bunny, G-man motherfucker just go away? Got things to do. Got a car to pick up. A free car. Cause I’m the last motherfucker alive. The Bunny said so. Before he picked up a badge and a gun.
And there’s that needle. Still on the floor. Enough in there for another hit.
*****
“Listen, buddy, mind if I come in?” Jimmy asked, trying to ignore the smell easing through the partially open door. He nearly gagged and found himself suddenly grateful for the near-zero temperatures. In the summer, he thought, that smell would knock a buzzard off a shitwagon.
Jimmy refocused on the task at hand, his mind racing through the situation.
If I bring him in, Jimmy thought—and if he’s willing to talk—he’ll get a private cell and three, maybe four squares a day.
If he plays ball.
By all accounts, Brad here knows a lot. What’s in his head can send a lot of folks to prison. Big folks. Local. Bigger than local. Folks in the rackets. Folks who do bad things to people who snitch. Really bad things. Like cement diving gear kinda things. Like what happened to Johnny Stardust.
*****
Bradley almost laughed. In spite of the aches and pains and the pounding in his skull and the near-overwhelming desire to grab the needle and find a good vein, he nearly laughed.
The Bunny wants to come in, he thought. Had a good thing, me and the Bunny. Had a damned good thing. Info for product. Anything I wanted. Anything he wanted.
But now…
Bradley peered at the Bunny, saw the massive head and the big goddamned teeth. Saw the huge, furry ears and…
And the suit.
Cheap and wrinkled and dark.
Cop clothes. Right down to the buff trench coat.
Fucking traitor Bunny.
Doesn’t think I see, Bradley told himself. Don’t know I know.
“Fuck you,” Bradley growled.
*****
Goddamnit, Jimmy thought. This is not going the way I’d hoped. The scraggly bastard peering around the door is the best lead I got. The best shot at finding out who iced Johnny Stardust in his dressing room out at the Thunderbird Lounge on Highway 68.
Because Johnny Stardust had helped this skinny, half-naked shithead with the bookie rip off. He’d helped and he’d been whacked for it. Right there in his dressing room, all done up like Elvis, circa 1976.
Jimmy didn’t have a damn clue how Brad and Johnny had done any of it. Wasn’t sure how the con had been run, but he knew it had been. He knew it much the same way he knew his own name.
Time to try something else, Jimmy told himself.
“You know Johnny Stardust?”
*****
“Got a picture?”
Bradley heard his own voice croak the question. Odd, he thought. Not what I meant to say. Maybe it was the name, he thought, the one the Fuckin’ Bunny Cop had mentioned.
Johnny Stardust.
Bradley knew the guy.
Knew him well.
Correction. Had known him. Had. He’d been that little weirdo who owned the Thunderbird Lounge, the big Vegas-wannabe place out by the main highway. The guy who ran around on stage dressed like Elvis and that one Rat Pack fella with the sapphire eyes. What was his name? Frank something. The Rat Pack fella’s name was irrelevant, though. Just like Mr. Stardust.
Because Johnny Stardust was gone. Just like the rest of humanity.
The Bunny said so.
The traitor Bunny.
The traitor Bunny with the funny questions.
Look at the picture, Bradley thought. Look at it, say you don’t know the guy, and close the door. Send the Fuckin’ Bunny Cop back to its hole. That needle is still waiting. And so is that goddamned ’82 ‘Stang. Car won’t pick up itself. Will it?
*****
Jimmy pulled a photo from one of his deep pockets.
“Here.”
He flipped the photo around and held it out so that the man behind the door could see it. He watched as those quick eyes flitted here and there, darting, it seemed, to cover every square inch of the picture.
Then, Jimmy Butler saw the eyes go wide.
Bingo, Jimmy thought.
Breaking News: China’s New Marriage Laws: Female Outrage & Is the USA or The West, Next?
China does not play.
This is a serious issue, and China is dealing as it must do.
Do you leave a tip if the service is bad?
Yes, I tip 20% regardless.
In the US, tips are not a “reward” for good service. They are service taxes that you must pay as long as you receive service.
The minimum wage for waitstaff (tipped employees) is $2.13/hr, which means the majority (if not all) of their take-home income comes from tips. That means the tips you pay are not “extra reward if you do a good job.” No. The tip is what you must pay to eat at a sit-down restaurant, regardless of how the service is. If you get service, you pay a minimum of 15%, preferably 20% tips.
Do you pay less for the dish if it doesn’t taste good? No. You don’t. You pay the price listed on the menu. So if you pay the listed price for the food even if it’s too salty, came out cold, overcooked, or undercooked, why would you cut tips when the waitress didn’t refill your water as quickly as you had hoped?
You pay the waitstaff 20% and round up to the next dollar until you can change the law and pay the waitstaff hourly rate like everyone else.
But But But! Why can’t I bully the waitstaff by dangling the few bucks in front of them and watching them work extra hard to “EARN” that? Where else would I get that satisfaction of vindication when I pay 2 dollars tips for a 300-dollar meal for 5 people and a baby and write on the receipt to let the waitress know she would get a fat tip if she smiled more?
Well, do you know why waitstaff was paid less than regular staff? Do you know why mandated tipping is rarely seen outside America?
Tipping became popular in the United States after the Civil War when restaurants and hospitality industries hired newly emancipated black women and men. But instead of paying wages, the employers suggested that guests offer these black workers a small tip for their services. As a result, the black waitstaff had to rely on patrons’ gratuities for their pay instead. Simply put, tipping was introduced as a way to exploit the labor of former slaves. And, of course, it gave the white patrons the added satisfaction of ordering black people around like in the “good old days.”
Tips are not “bonuses” or “extra” on top of a wage to reward good services. It is a wage. It was introduced by a bunch of former slaver white racists to create a power imbalance between the (white) customers and (Black) waitstaff.
Since arriving in the US, I’ve always found tipping distasteful. We don’t have tips in China. In fact, many waitstaff will not accept tips because, well, they don’t work for you. They are not your servants. They are doing a job. It is insulting to offer them money.
The waitstaff does not work for you. They are not your servants. They provide a service to make your experience at the restaurant enjoyable. You don’t get to “discipline” them with your tips.
I tip 20% when I dine at a sit-down restaurant. If the service is particularly bad, I’ll ask to speak to the manager, and I will still tip 20%. Because, repeat after me, a tip is not a bonus or extra reward. It is a service tax we must pay when dining out. If you can’t afford to tip, you can’t afford to dine out. Make your own food and serve yourself at home.
Sir Whiskerton and Longwei’s Fire-Free Breath Contest: A Tale of Dandelions, Drama, and Dragon-sized Lessons
Ah, dear reader, prepare yourself for a tale of whimsy, competition, and one very determined dragon who decided to trade fire for fluff. Today’s story is one of gentle breezes, dramatic sighs, and a cat who proved that even the fiercest creatures can learn new tricks. So, grab your sense of humor and a dandelion (for blowing), as we dive into Sir Whiskerton and Longwei’s Fire-Free Breath Contest: A Tale of Dandelions, Drama, and Dragon-sized Lessons.
The Challenge
It all began on a sunny afternoon when Longwei the dragon, ever the gentle giant, decided to host a contest. “My dear friends,” he said, his deep, resonant voice carrying across the farm, “I challenge you to a test of skill and creativity. Who among you can create the most impressive ‘fire-free breath’ effect by blowing dandelion fluff across the yard?”
The animals, always up for a bit of fun, were intrigued. “A contest?” Doris the hen squawked, flapping her wings. “What a marvelous idea!”
“Marvelous!” Harriet echoed, tilting her head.
“Head!” Lillian added, fainting dramatically onto a pile of straw.
Even Rufus the dog, usually more interested in napping, wagged his tail. “I’ll give it a try!” he barked. “I’ve got the perfect breath for it.”
The Contest Begins
With great fanfare (and a lot of clucking, quacking, and oinking), the contest began. Longwei demonstrated the technique, gently blowing a dandelion fluff into the air with a soft, steady breath. The fluff floated gracefully across the yard, landing perfectly on a nearby hay bale.
“Bravo!” the animals cheered.
One by one, the animals took their turns. Doris blew with all her might, sending the fluff spiraling in every direction. Rufus let out a mighty howl, scattering the fluff like a mini tornado. Even Porkchop the pig gave it a try, though his attempt ended with the fluff stuck to his snout.
But the real drama began when Count Catula stepped forward. “Step aside, peasants,” he said, sweeping his velvet cape dramatically. “I, Count Catula, shall demonstrate the true art of breath control.”
With a theatrical sigh, Count Catula blew the dandelion fluff into the air. It floated for a moment, then landed directly on his nose. “Ah,” he said, striking a pose. “Perfection.”
The Escalation
As the contest continued, things began to escalate. Ferdinand the duck insisted on singing an operatic quack while blowing his fluff, resulting in a chaotic swirl of feathers and fluff. Bessie the Tie-Dye Cow tried to meditate her way to victory, but her “peace and love” vibes only made the fluff drift lazily in circles.
Meanwhile, Count Catula declared himself the reigning champion of dramatic sighs. “No one can match my flair!” he proclaimed, striking another dramatic pose.
Sir Whiskerton Steps In
Seeing the chaos unfold, I knew it was time to intervene. “Longwei,” I said, flicking my tail, “perhaps it’s time to remind everyone what this contest is really about.”
Longwei nodded, his gentle eyes twinkling. “Indeed, Sir Whiskerton. Let us refocus on the joy of the challenge, not the drama.”
With a deep breath, Longwei blew another dandelion fluff into the air. This time, it floated higher and farther than ever before, landing gently on the roof of the barn. The animals watched in awe.
“Now that,” I said, smirking, “is what I call fire-free breath.”
The Moral of the Story
As the contest came to a close, the animals reflected on the day’s events.
The moral of the story, dear reader, is this: Even dragons have room to learn new tricks. Whether it’s trading fire for fluff or embracing a new challenge, there’s always something new to discover—and a little bit of fun to be had along the way.
A Happy Ending
With the contest over, the farm returned to its usual state of peaceful chaos. The animals, inspired by Longwei’s gentle example, continued to practice their fire-free breath techniques, turning the barnyard into a sea of floating dandelion fluff. Even Count Catula, though still dramatic, admitted that there was something magical about the simplicity of the challenge.
As for me, I returned to my favorite sunbeam on the barn roof, content in the knowledge that I had once again saved the day. The contest was a success, the drama was over, and all was right in the world.
And so, dear reader, we leave our heroes with the promise of new adventures, new contests, and hopefully, no more dramatic sighs. Until next time, may your days be filled with laughter, love, and just a little bit of feline genius.
The End.
Shorpy
What do you make of Australia’s claim that China did not give sufficient notice of its live-fire exercise off the Australian coast?
So China gave notice?
What’ a bunch of low-esteemed cowards!
Australian warships wander the South China Sea regularly and never gives China prior notice.
It’s not like we test fired nuclear weapons to Sydney’s coast. Why do we give them notice when they don’t give us?
Southern Peach Ice Cream
Ingredients
- 4 cups peeled, diced fresh peaches (about 8 small ripe peaches)
- 1 cup granulated sugar
- 1 (12 ounce) can evaporated milk
- 1 (3.75 ounce) box vanilla instant pudding mix
- 1 (14 ounce) can sweetened condensed milk
- 4 cups Half-and-Half
Instructions
- Combine peaches and sugar; let stand 1 hour.
- Process peach mixture in a food processor until smooth, stopping to scrape down sides.
- Stir together evaporated milk and pudding mix in a large bowl; stir in peach purée, sweetened condensed milk and Half-and-Half.
- Pour mixture into the freezer container of a 4 quart hand-turned or electric freezer; freeze according to manufacturer’s instructions.
- Spoon into an airtight container, and freeze until firm.
Honda just announced they will move their Civic production from Mexico to Indiana because of tariffs. When will Democrats admit tariffs work?
Auto jobs should never have left Indiana to begin with.
But sending Mexico into a recession to get them back doesn’t seem like a great plan.
There’s no guarantee that Honda will hire human beings to build these cars in Indiana. Many (possibly most) manufacturing jobs in the Midwest disappeared a generation ago not because of outsourcing to countries like Mexico and China, but simply because of machines replacing people.
Trump’s tariffs clearly stand a good chance of driving up the cost of production. In order to make up the difference in cost, it seems entirely likely that companies like Honda will just try to rely even more heavily than they currently do on automated machines, removing as many workers as possible from the equation. Don’t think they can do this? Well, they’ve done it before. And AI is massively more advanced than it was just a few years ago. A promise to move car plants to Indiana doesn’t automatically mean more jobs in Indiana.
Picture this, too: once the Mexican economy has been driven into a recession — especially if Trump’s stupid food tariffs destroy Mexican farmers — who knows, you might see another surge of migrants across the border. Destroying Mexican livelihoods is also likely to benefit the cartels somehow, don’t you think? The collapse of traditional Mexican agriculture under NAFTA wasn’t pretty, because it led to a surge of drugs, poverty, obesity and violence. Picture what replaces it as Americans stop buying food from Mexico.
Trump’s ideas just seem poorly thought out and wildly contradictory. I’m not even a Democrat, and if you want places where I criticized Joe Biden, I’ll provide them, chapter and verse. But Trump is setting us up for short-term gain and long-term pain.
The U.S. should be about 95% self-sufficient. It’s a measure of the stupidity of voters and the greed of big business that we’re not. But I don’t expect Mexicans and Canadians to take kindly to losing their jobs just so we can benefit. Canada, in particular, has other ways to make life hard for us.
By the way, once Trump has yanked all the “cards” out of Mexico’s hands and helped destroy its booming economy (something that’s as good for us as it is for Mexicans), what exactly keeps Mexico from just opening the floodgates of illegal immigration on us? The number of migrants on the border (most of whom aren’t Mexicans) is massively down right now — yes, thanks (in part) to Trump threatening Mexico with tariffs. But once he’s stabbed Mexico in the back often enough, then Mexico won’t have much more to lose. They could absolutely just start bussing migrants back up to the border, just like Ron DeSanctimonious flew illegals to Massachusetts and dumped them there.
Same goes for Canada. When Canadians lose their factories, what’s Trump going to hold over them next? They sell us shitloads of cheap oil, electricity and natural gas, which Canada could just double in price if it feels like it, just to piss off Trump and make MAGA politicians unelectable. (I think Doug Ford in Ontario said he’s going to specifically target swing states like Michigan, just to extra piss-off Michiganians against MAGA politicians and the president.) Canada can sell a lot of this stuff to Europe, which will absolutely need it. They can slam 100% tariffs on Tesla cars, totally cutting off Musk from the Canadian market, something I hope they do. (The Europeans will probably do this, too. Suppose Musk manufactures all Teslas in the United States. Where’s he going to sell ‘em after he’s pissed off almost every major market outside the U.S. and teamed up with a president absolutely in bondage to the oil companies?)
I think the sum total of what Trump is sowing for Americans (and for himself) means MAGA Republican politicians will be easy pickins in the next mid-term elections. I don’t wish ruin on MAGA voters, but unfortunately I think the only cure for Trumpism is for them to just see their money evaporate for the next couple of years. This is the only cure. Otherwise, we get one of Trump’s son’s running. The whole family has to be discredited.
TLDR: for what it’s worth, Honda has been producing cars in Greensburg, Indiana, since 2008. (Early Obama years.)
I live in Indiiana. Got no problem with more jobs here, per se. But do I want more manufacturing in this state at the expense of Mexican prosperity? No. Do I want to see a Mexican family who works at a Honda plant in Guanajuato destroyed just to bring prosperity to a family in Greensburg? No. A smart president would find some other way to do this.
In business, has your boss ever tried to fire you, only to be fired by their boss instead?
He did not try to fire me but was setting me up for it.
We managed construction projects. I was one of a few project managers, managed the larger ones, boss was the head of project management.
We had an issue with a sub contractor. I outlined my plan and he overruled me. I advised that this would not work, the client would never back his solution and our executitive would never agree anyway.
Boss insisted I do it his way. Everything was documented in emails. I did it in such a manner that it would be reversible, not locking us into his plan.
Naturally it did not work out well. An executitive came to our site to look into things. Early one morning, I was shown print outs of doctored emails making it look like it was my idea, and I had been ordered not to do it that way.
I showed the VP my original emails, on my laptop not paper copies. I forwarded him all the emails. I asked him to verify which were real with IT as I knew we archived every email sent and received through our servers.
Boss was not seen after lunch.
Munich driven to TEARS. Collective west ends
What technologies is China prioritizing in its competition with the US?
Every tecnology out there.
Before 2018, who could have known that the US was going to wage a tech war against China with chips?
If you did, you’re a genius. China sure didn’t, and that’s why it shut down all chip related majors in China after entering WTO, because it completely fell for the American propaganda lie of “free market” and was prepared to buy chips from the US forever.
China would not allow itself to be caught like this again.
That’s why it’s playing safe and teching up all across the board to avoid any overlooked future tech being used by American blackmailing.
And we’re already seeing some results, from lithography machine, to chip design, to a.i., to longest sustained nuclear fusion, to planetary defense department, to the deepest mining drills, to the highest grossing animation of all time, to computer games, to military hardware, to nuclear powered cargo ships, to EV, to space cargo plane, to humanoid robots, to reusable rockets, to hyper-sonic passenger airplanes, to brain-machine wireless connection that does not need an operation, to anti-cancer drugs, to man on the moon by 2030 for a permanent moon base, to arts, music, geography and biology removed from Chinese college exam, to place an even stronger emphasis on math, chemistry and physics for all Chinese teenagers…
In the 2010s, the US weaponized tech and used it to attack China. In response, China has decided to become an overwhelming tech superpower, that aims to defend itself by outclassing the US in any known tech.
The Last
Submitted into Contest #279 in response to: Center your story around a person who believes they’re the last human on Earth.… view prompt
John K Adams
The lecturer was the world-renowned author, philosopher and bore, Roman… Lou couldn’t pronounce his last name. He only knew it had too few vowels and too many hyphens. Even the event’s program contained several spellings of the tongue-twister. Were any correct? Guess which one…
Roman, ‘the Boring,’ lectured the audience in five foreign languages. He famously disdained English as a mongrel tongue.
Behind him on state were five translators. Standing in identical suits and ties, they looked like waiters, minus the towels draped over their arms. But their verbal acrobatics were impressive. Like magicians, they valiantly expressed Roman’s impenetrable erudition into American English. As much as possible, the words were familiar even if the concepts were obscure.
The featured speaker, Roman, compensated for his towering ego, excuse me – his towering intellect, by being shorter than average. Having a bald pate and a strong jaw, from excessive use, he looked almost as round as tall. He wore a striped tuxedo.
Roman claimed ancient ideas as his own. He analyzed his ponderous prose in glowing terms so opaque, his translators spent the evening looking befuddled.
‘And some don’t believe in purgatory,’ Lou thought. He dismissed that idea when he realized his feelings more closely resembled hell.
‘Never again will I waste a minute listening to this rube… even if we were the last two people on earth…’
Roman’s pomposity tempted Lou to heckle. Yelling insults might provide relief. He would garner support from like-minded souls, escape this droning dirge and revel in life.
‘Oh to sing and dance…’
Before he acted, doubts crept in. Lou hated being rude. And he didn’t know the crowd. Some in the audience dozed. Did they snore in foreign languages?
Also, the speaker was stupendously boring but not stupid. Who knows what clever call to action he’d use to rally his followers? Lou feared being the scapegoat and not the hero. Yes, he would be out of there, but at what cost?
No one ever said, ‘Give me boredom, or give me death.’ Unwilling to choose, Lou sought other options.
Some barely stirred when scattered applause threatened to disrupt their slumber. A few even stood to applaud.
‘Are they so enthralled by this narcissist’s pontifications?’
Lou then realized they didn’t rise in honor of Roman, but to exit.
A misstatement sparked an argument between Roman and one translator. Their heated discussion took place in a foreign language. But it appeared Roman disagreed with the translator’s interpretation of what he’d said. A secondary dispute arose over whether this overblown distraction was necessary. Another translator tried interpreting the substance of the argument for the audience. Others pulled him back.
Their voices rising, neither Roman nor the translator gave ground. Finally, stopping short of violence, Roman fired him on the spot. The translator left in shame.
The shouting drew attendees back to their seats in hopes of further excitement. They didn’t get it.
No other translator offered to fill the gap. Forced to make his crucial point alone, Roman faced the crowd. Buying time, he wrung his hands. The crowd stirred in anticipation.
After clearing his throat, Roman said, “Never mind…”
He then continued his incomprehensible discourse with no additional pauses, even to take a breath. At least, that’s how it felt. The translators stood by, but had no purpose.
Disappointed, the audience resumed filtering out. At first one or two. Then more. Eventually, the growing stream of people created a bottleneck at the back. Lou figured it was a common occurrence.
Unfazed, Roman droned on effectively spouting gibberish.
Though tempted, Lou decided against joining the throng. He sat mid-row. Leaving early would require stumbling over other audience members’ feet. He didn’t want to wake them.
Then, like slipping from dream to reality, Lou became aware he was alone in the empty auditorium.
How did this happen? Moments ago, everyone was there. Even the mayor. Now the place stood empty. The speaker, Roman what’s-his-name, and his entourage had vacated the premises.
‘Did Roman bore everyone out of existence? I missed the best part, the lecture’s conclusion… How could I sleep through that?’
Lou hated being alone.
‘Where’s Mona? Oh right, never showed… Stood me up. What happened? Did she text?’
He checked his phone. Nothing.
‘Ghosted. I can take a hint. Alone again.’
The story of his life.
‘God, it’s quiet. Where is everyone?’
Lou could swear that he’d been surrounded by thousands. And then he blinked. Stunned, he couldn’t believe it. The immense silence in the vast auditorium was unnerving. He clapped his hands to ensure he hadn’t gone deaf.
‘She set me up for this? Seems like it…’
He tried calling others on the phone, but every call went straight to voice mail.
‘Where is everyone? Why am I here instead of with them?’
His isolation felt creepy.
‘Better move on. Cleaning crew will be at it soon.’
His anxiety swelling, Lou walked up the aisle. The lobby stood empty too. He ran out. Streetlights glowed brightly on empty streets. There were no cars. No foot traffic. Not even a bus. Silence reigned.
‘This ain’t good. This is too weird.’
Lou felt his throat tighten with fear. A loud groan escaped, startling him. It was the first sound he’d heard in several minutes.
Running to the curb, he stared down the boulevard to see shining, empty streets. No traffic.
“No, no, no… What’s happened? What can I do? What now?”
He began hyperventilating. Feeling dizzy, he staggered to a bus bench.
Sitting, he thought, ‘There’s no one. I can’t collapse. No one will find me…’
He called out. “Hey! Hello! Anyone?” Not even an echo.
‘Am I the last one on earth?’
Tears streaming, Lou fell to his knees. Clasping his hands together, he looked into the dark sky.
“Help me! Please… Show me I’m not alone!”
Sobbing, he fell forward in despair. His forehead on the cold sidewalk brought some calm.
Still kneeling, Lou heard footsteps behind him. Composing himself, he blew his nose. He stood, thrilled for some company. He turned and felt his stomach churn. It was Roman, that night’s speaker, unmistakable in his striped tux.
Offering his hand, he approached Lou.
In perfect English, he said, “You stayed ‘til the bitter end. How did you like my talk?”
Lou looked around, desperate for another. Anyone. There was no one else. Only the silence.
What is something someone who has never been poor wouldn’t understand?
My future wife was frugal, living on a small wage. She always put money in her retirement fund every month. But she knew to the penny, how much she was overdrawn at the bank each month. Sometimes as little as a couple of dollars, but on months with high utility bills, it could be close to the limit of her overdraft protection. There was a spreadsheet with her budget, including what types of groceries she could buy. It included her online college courses, so she could get her degree, and her mortgage payment on her tiny little condo. She didn’t have a car, as she couldn’t afford the payments, gas and insurance. So she walked everywhere.
Once she moved in with me, the pressure was off, and she took her time finding a job that paid her almost twice as much. Suddenly she had spending money. She could go out with her friends after work, and not worry if the group wanted to split the bill. She would always order the cheapest thing, and couldn’t have afforded to split the cost of someones more expensive meal, because she just hadn’t had the money.
I remember the first time that she came home, and she had been able to split the cost of a friend’s birthday dinner with her other friends, instead of having to decline the invitation.
After we were married, she always kept enough money in her checking account, so that she didn’t have to pay bank fees. But she still paid for overdraft protection, because she just might run out of money. I asked her why she paid for something she wasn’t using, and she said that she had always had to live on overdraft protection, and she was afraid to live without it. It took 5 years of never dropping below the minimum balance to get free service, before she cancelled the overdraft protection. It took that long to overcome her fear of ruining out of money.
“If you can’t afford to tip, you can’t afford to dine out. Make your own food and serve yourself at home.”
I usually do as it’s much more affordable and I’m a much better cook and waiter. lol
The diner scene in the movie reservoir dogs, discuss the ethics of tipping. Mr. Pink has a point.