.
Sometimes, life’s complexities require simple solutions—and a little humor goes a long way
Ooga Chucka Ooga Chucka...
What a day. I'm driving to a resort. Four hour drive. During the Chinese holiday. Brutal driving. But I'm almost there.
Half an hour to go.
Whoops. Miss the turn.
No worries. Got off at the next off ramp, and the AI map regenerated the rout.
Now I am thinking that it would simply drive me three Km back to my missed exit and we would continue. Or so I thought.
It took me down a secondary highway. That turned into a road. That got narrower and narrower, and then turned into a twisty, curvy single lane nightmare road, then into a dusty lane, then fractured pavement, and then mud cattle path. We went up mounts, down mountains, around landslide, broken ratty bridges, and drove though flooded streams.
The 30 minute drive turned into a three hour nightmare. My wife was terrified, as we drove on the edge of cliff faces with no guard rails.
Finally, we rounded a bend and saw the resort. We were finally there, and then screech!
Padlocked chained gate. Yeah, this was a nature wild preserve. So we called the hotel, and they sent a guy to the gate. But he wouldn't unlock it. The guy cited the dangers of letting the animals escape if he did so. My wife was in hysterics, and I was just about ready to abandon the car right then and there. There was no way that I was going to go back that same way I came.
So my wife in hysterics called the police.
The police came quickly. Like within 8 minutes. And yeah, he saw our predicament. And understood. The rule about the gate can be temporarily suspended. And the manager unlocked the padlock and let us through. The Manager VIP escorted us to the front door, and we arrived.
Anyways it was a harrowing trip. And when we arrived I discovered that I forgot my passport. Ugh! In China you cannot register to stay at a hotel without your passport, and thus a second trial was unleashed. But I'll save that one for another day.
Be good you all.
Today...
China's Eric Li Delivers Brutal Truths to Europe's Face
This is really good.
What marksmanship training did Tyler Robinson have to be so accurate at 200+ yards?
We don’t know, but likely very little. Or at least, he would have needed very little to make that shot.
Here’s the thing a lot of people apparently don’t understand. Using pretty much any modern bolt action rifle with a scope, you should be capable of quite accurate fire with just a modicum of training. A 200 yard shot with a scoped rifle is easy.
And yet Tyler still missed (probably). It is extremely unlikely that Tyler meant to shoot Kirk in the neck. That’s not a normal aimpoint for anybody. The two targets of choice, depending on your training and history, are the head or center-mass on the torso. What most likely happened is that Tyler was aiming for one of those targets and missed. The bullet just happened to still catch Kirk in the neck.
I’ve taken longer shots, with greater accuracy, using iron sights.
The idea that Tyler was some kind of super-ninja professional shooter is laughable.
Mandela Effects You’ve Never Heard About
Wildflowers and Moonlight
Written in response to: "Write a story in which a character navigates using the stars."
Annie Hewitt
Christina had just enrolled in a photography class at the local community college and her first assignment was to photograph something rare. She came up with the idea of taking a picture of one of the wildflowers that bloom for a short time in Joshua Tree National Park. They lived nearby so it wasn’t a difficult decision to go for a quick hike.
The area had had plenty of rain this winter and the reward this spring was a landscape that was bursting with color. Reds, yellows, purples and blues splashed across the park’s muted landscape, lending a psychedelic hue to an already mystical scene.
Their morning had started with a fight, which was not unusual these days. And while their fights are about different small things every day: the way Danny squeezes the toothpaste from the middle instead of rolling the tube up from the bottom the way Christina likes it or the way Christina replaces the toilet paper roll facing under instead of over the way Danny insists on having it, the fight is really always about the same thing. The one thing that has consumed their marriage for the last three years: infertility. They are stressed, fatigued and overwhelmed with the financial, the physical and the emotional drain it has been.
They both want a baby but Christina has become obsessed and can think of nothing else. They have gone to specialists, taken every test and done everything the doctors have suggested and still nothing. They have done IVF twice unsuccessfully and the shots and the prep for insemination for the third time is causing Christina to be more and more moody and very, very angry. All the time she’s angry. This bubbling hostility is really getting to be too much for both of them.
As they sit in the dark desert, contemplating which way to go they looked at each other and he noticed Christina was near tears. They were lost, hungry, scared, and disoriented. Danny felt particular pressure to get Christina out of this since he had a lot more experience with hiking and nature in general and she just didn’t need this stress. If only the sky would clear up, he could find Polaris and get them home. They couldn’t possibly be too far away from where they needed to be.
“We shouldn’t have gone so far away from the marked trails,” Christina whined with a hint of blame creeping into her tone. “We’re gonna die out here!”
“It'd really be great if you didn’t use that tone. I’m not the one who just HAD to get the picture of the Mojave Aster flower,” he said angrily.
“I know. I’m sorry. You’re right,” Christina said as she breathed deeply using her yoga breaths to center herself. Christina was a yoga instructor and had always been so healthy that she took her failure to get pregnant as a particular insult to her healthy lifestyle.
“Okay Mr. Boy Scout, show me how to survive!” she said through her breaths.
He knew that talking would keep her focus away from her fear so he talked.
“Well, when the clouds clear, all we need to is find Polaris — the North Star. It’s directly over the North Pole, always.”
“How do you find that?” she asked between deep breaths that were not doing a great job of keeping her centered.
“Well, to find it, we need to locate the Big Dipper. And if the Big Dipper is partially obscured, which, thanks to the cloud formation, it is you can look for Casseopeia. Casseopeia is always opposite the North Star from the Big Dipper. So that’s how you can center yourself and figure out which way to go. We parked and came in through the West Entrance so as soon as the clouds lift a little more we’ll know which direction will get us out of here.”
As she listened to his answer that was meant to soothe her, she actually got more worked up.
“But what if the sky doesn’t clear up? What if a mountain lion comes around? What if the temperature drops? We are going to die!” With each question, her voice got louder and she was getting more and more hysterical.
“Christina, stop! This isn’t helping,” Danny grabbed her shoulders and turned her toward him and looked straight in her eyes. “We are not gonna die. Just calm down.”
Well, that did it. He should’ve known. You don’t tell a woman to calm down. Ever. But especially one jacked up on hormones.
And with that Christina burst into tears, the floodgates opened and everything came out. All the pent up frustration, anxiety and stress was released into the desert air and she wept. She wept for the children they didn’t have and never would have, for the years of trying, for the money spent and for the misplaced guilt that drove her desire to do all of this in the first place. She cried and cried and cried, and all Danny could do was hold her. As her tears subsided a little, she pulled away from him and looked at him with the most shattered expression he’d ever seen. She was completely broken and seemed to deflate before his eyes.
“Danny, I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I’m, just so tired," she said through tears. "I don’t want to disappoint you. I really don't, but I think, for me--I’m done. I'm just done," she sobbed but continued talking. She had to get it out now.
"I'm so sorry, but I’ve gone as far as I can go with this. I feel like I’ve failed you, I failed myself, and I’ve failed at the one thing a woman is supposed to be able to do, but I can’t live like this anymore, and I can’t take the heartbreak anymore,” the last few words were a whisper drowned out by tears.
Danny listened to her in the eerie silence of the dark desert and couldn't believe what he was hearing. He had been sure she was never going to stop until they had a baby. But when she said it, he could feel the pit that had been in his stomach gnawing away at him for what seemed like an eternity break apart into nothingness, and he broke down and cried with her. He cried for all the pain and stress they had gone through and because he couldn’t believe that they had gone so long without really communicating. This whole baby-making train had taken off and put them both on autopilot. After they decided to do it they never really discussed what that would look like and how far was too far in this quest.
“I’m sorry,” he said as he brushed her tears away. “I’m sorry for making you think that you could disappoint me. You could never disappoint me. I’m sorry for not taking the time to talk about this sooner. I can’t stand what this is doing to you; what it’s doing to us. It’s just all too much. I wanted a baby. I really did, but I'm done too. I just didn't want to say anything because I thought you were still determined, and I didn't want to disappoint you.”
They held each other in the quiet of the night and felt peace come over them. After a while Danny looked up at the sky and noticed that he could see stars. The clouds had parted.
“Hey, look! The Big Dipper! Do you see it?” he pointed into the sky and she nodded without really even looking.
“C’mon. Let’s go,” he pulled her up off the rock she had been sitting on and they started walking west. “See? If that is north, we need to walk west over here. It shouldn’t take too long.”
As they walked out of the desert, they kept talking about how sorry they were for all the fighting they’d been doing. They talked about what they’d like to do now that they’d have time to focus on other things and they held hands and realized that while having a child would’ve been great, they were fine just being together. And there were other ways to have children. They could always adopt, but that’s a discussion for another day. Today they feel light and unfettered for the first time in years.
It took about an hour to follow the stars back to their car and on that walk they felt closer and happier than they’d felt in a long time.
“You know, walking in the dark, following the stars reminds me of something I read in college that Leonardo da Vinci said. Are you ready? It's gonna be cute."
She smiled in the dark at how sweet and dorky her husband was. "I'm ready. Lay it on me," she said with a little laugh.
"I think it goes something like: ‘fix your course on a star and you’ll navigate any storm’. Leo was right," Danny said as he squeezed her hand. "We fixed our course on a star and it not only got us out of the desert, it got us back to each other.”
"Aw, you're right, that was cute," she smiled at him knowing how lucky they were to have each other as they got in their car and drove home.
Julian Investigated the MISSING 11 "Scientists" Story & Discovered THIS
They're not even hiding it. Scary times...
What are the most insane things that American tourists do abroad?
I was riding around Beijing on my rented bicycle when I got stopped by a Chinese cop.
I got stopped here.
That’s Long Peace Street (长安街) in Beijing. You’re looking at Tian An Men square on the left and the Forbidden City on the right. So, apparently you aren’t supposed to ride your bike on the street , the railed bike lane is relatively new. So I am cruising down the street when this Chinese cop steps out and holds up a white gloved hand and motions be to the curb.
So I pull over and he comes walking up. He’s about my dad’s age at the time and a bit heavy set and he was totally adorable.
He asks me in Mandarin if I speak Mandarin (你会说普通话吗) and I just shook my head.
So he leans in really close and brings up a hand palm up.
Then he points at me and points at the street and shakes his finger at me.
Then he points at me and points at the sidewalk and then a big thumbs up.
Then he makes the “OK” symbol and gives me a questioning look. So I do the OK sign back to him and nod my head.
So he pats me on the back and shakes my hand and sends me on my way.
Such a trouble maker.
I would love to tell you that was my last interaction with Chinese cops while I was in the country. Sadly, that was not the case. Though I am not posting about the other ones.
In any case, they were way nicer than the cops in Thailand, Sheesh, those guys.
Overall, the cops in Spain were the best.
Who inherited singer Prince money and properties?
A legend in his own time, but he left no will. A man with a hundred million dollars and no piece of paper to say where it went. That was the problem. The whole problem.
So the state stepped in. The lawyers stepped in. Many people came forward. They claimed to be his child. His wife. The court listened for a long time. The court said no.
In the end, the law pointed to his family, his full sister, Tyka Nelson. And five half-siblings. They were the legal heirs. The fight took six years. It cost a fortune in lawyer fees-The government took its share first, big share for them taxes.
Then the rest was split. Three of the siblings sold their part to a music company. A company called Primary Wave. The other three kept theirs. So now the estate, the music, the house called Paisley Park. Owned by his family and by a corporation-A complicated end for a complicated man. No single person got it all. Just pieces of what was left after the fighting was done.
Why does everything feel so boring now?
Have you noticed it too? The world feels... washed out. The colours are muted, the streets are lined with identical buildings, and everything from apps to logos has been flattened into something that feels a bit more sterile. This video explores the growing sense that modern life just looks boring — and why so many people are longing for something more vibrant, more textured, more real.
What have we lost in our pursuit of simplicity— this video looks at why our visual world has become so uniform, and what that says about us. Please note: I completely understand that not everyone will feel the same way that I do about the way that the modern world looks, and if people prefer a minimalist and modern-inspired design then I have absolutely no ill-feeling towards them! Honestly! I know that I harp on, but I genuinely believe that people should be able to express themselves in whatever way they feel the most themselves. ❤️
Cheese-Stuffed Eggplant (Jordan)
Yield: 4 servings
Ingredients
- 2 (1 pound) eggplants
- 1 medium onion, chopped
- 2 cloves garlic, minced
- 1/4 cup olive oil
- 8 ounces mushrooms, thinly sliced
- 2 medium tomatoes, cut into wedges
- 1 cup salted peanuts
- 1 1/2 cups soft bread crumbs
- 2 tablespoons snipped parsley
- 1/2 teaspoon salt
- 1/2 teaspoon ground marjoram
- 1/2 teaspoon ground oregano
- 2/3 cup grated Parmesan cheese
Instructions
- Cut eggplants lengthwise into halves. Cut out and cube enough eggplant from shells to measure about 4 cups, leaving a 1/2 inch wall on side and bottom of each shell; reserve shells.
- Cook and stir eggplant cubes, onion and garlic in oil in a 10 inch skillet over medium heat for 5 minutes.
- Add remaining ingredients except reserved shells and cheese. Cover and cook over low heat for 10 minutes.
- Place eggplant shells in ungreased shallow pan; spoon peanut mixture into shells.
- Sprinkle cheese over filled shells.
- Bake uncovered at 350 degrees F until eggplant is tender, 30 to 40 minutes.
Roll with the Changes (REO Speedwagon) | Classic Rock Cover - Kelly and the Ding Dongs
Sir Whiskerton and the Mileage Misery
Or: When a Taxman, a Beatnik Cat, and a Genie Walk Into a Farm—and Chaos Ensues
Introduction
Ah, dear reader, prepare for a tale of existential crises, backward odometers, and floating tractors. Today’s story begins with Taxman Ted arriving on Sir Whiskerton’s farm armed with spreadsheets, calculators, and an unshakable belief in the sanctity of mileage logs. His mission? To audit Jazzpurr the Beatnik Cat’s “business miles” for his bongo gigs.
What follows is a cosmic comedy of errors as Zephyr the Genie steps in to “help,” turning Ted’s meticulous world upside down—and occasionally backward. So grab your abacus (and perhaps a tambourine), as we dive into Sir Whiskerton and the Mileage Misery.
Act 1: The Audit Begins
It was a quiet morning on the farm when Taxman Ted arrived, clipboard in hand and calculator clicking rhythmically.
“Attention, farm inhabitants!” he declared, adjusting his perfectly pressed suit. “I am here to ensure compliance with all applicable tax regulations. Starting with… you.” He pointed dramatically at Jazzpurr, who was lounging atop a hay bale, strumming his bongos.
Jazzpurr blinked lazily, his beret askew. “Dude, I’m just vibin’. What’s this about?”
Ted adjusted his glasses sternly. “Your business miles, sir. Every mile traveled for bongo performances must be logged. No exceptions.”
Jazzpurr tilted his head philosophically. “My commute isn’t measured in miles, man—it’s transcendental. Like… groovy vibrations through the cosmos.”
Ted stared blankly. “That’s not how mileage works.”
Zephyr floated nearby, sipping from a glowing mojito. “Oh, let me handle this,” he said with a grin, snapping his fingers.
Act 2: The Cosmic Chaos Unfolds
Moments later, Ted’s car began behaving strangely. First, the odometer started spinning backward. Then, the dashboard lights flickered in time with Jazzpurr’s bongo beats.
“What sorcery is this?!” Ted cried, frantically pressing buttons.
“It’s called ‘groovy intervention,’” Zephyr replied smugly. “Now your mileage is… flexible.”
Meanwhile, the farmer wandered over, scratching his head. “Why’s my tractor floating?”
Sure enough, the tractor had risen several feet off the ground, surrounded by a shimmering aura.
“It’s a floating tax haven,” Zephyr announced proudly. “No jurisdiction can touch it now.”
The farmer blinked. “Does this mean I don’t have to file taxes?”
Ted groaned, clutching his clipboard like a lifeline. “This is absurd.”
Act 3: Existential Crisis Over Miles
As chaos erupted around him, Jazzpurr found himself spiraling into an existential crisis.
“If my miles are infinite,” he mused, staring at the sky, “am I everywhere at once? Or nowhere? Am I even real?”
Sir Whiskerton padded over, adjusting his monocle. “You’re overthinking it, old chap. Just tell Ted you walked to your gigs.”
“But what if walking is also… a construct?” Jazzpurr countered dramatically.
Ted sighed deeply. “Can we please focus on something tangible? Like… numbers?”
Zephyr smirked, snapping his fingers again. Suddenly, Ted’s calculator began spitting out random digits, accompanied by a kazoo solo.
“This isn’t helping!” Ted wailed.
Act 4: Resolution and Reflection
Eventually, Sir Whiskerton stepped in to restore order.
“Enough,” he declared, his voice firm yet calm. “Ted, Jazzpurr’s miles cannot be quantified because they exist in the realm of art and imagination. Zephyr, while your intentions were amusing, meddling with reality only causes confusion. And Jazzpurr…” He turned to the beatnik cat. “Perhaps it’s time to embrace the mundane joys of record-keeping.”
Jazzpurr sighed melodramatically. “Fine. But I’m billing my soul-searching as a creative expense.”
Ted nodded reluctantly. “Agreed. Let’s call it… fifty miles total. For simplicity.”
Even Zephyr seemed satisfied. “See? Compromise is groovy.”
Post-Credit Scene
Later that evening, Zephyr approached Ted with a mischievous grin.
“So… about that floating tractor…”
Ted buried his face in his hands. “Why did I ever leave the office?”
Moral of the Story
Sometimes, life’s complexities require simple solutions—and a little humor goes a long way.
Best Lines
- “Dude, my commute is transcendental.” – Jazzpurr, channeling his inner philosopher.
- “It’s a floating tax haven.” – Zephyr, redefining financial loopholes.
- “Humility? A word invented by the unremarkable.” – Ted, immediately before losing control of his odometer.
Key Jokes
- Ted demanding Jazzpurr log his “business miles” for bongo gigs adds absurdity to bureaucracy.
- Zephyr making the odometer run backward sparks both confusion and hilarity.
- The farmer’s tractor being declared a “floating tax haven” ties humor to surrealism.
Starring
- Taxman Ted (Spreadsheet Enthusiast/Reluctant Hero)
- Jazzpurr the Beatnik Cat (Philosophical Bongo Player/Existential Crisis Extraordinaire)
- Zephyr the Genie (Groovy Chaos Coordinator)
- Sir Whiskerton (Voice of Reason/Feline Diplomat)
Summaries
- Moral: Sometimes, life’s complexities require simple solutions—and a little humor goes a long way.
- Future Potential: Could Jazzpurr start a poetry club focused on existential themes? Or will Zephyr invent edible calculators next?
Until next time, may your commutes be smooth and your tractors grounded. 🚜
If you're on foot, what's the best way to cross vast expanses of sand dunes?
First, you do not walk in the sun, the sun will kill you long before the distance does, you find shade and you wait - You walk at night, under the moon and the stars.
A straight line is a fool’s path.
A waste of sweat and spirit, you must read the land.
The best way is the hard, flat ground between the great dunes, if it goes in your direction.
If you must cross the dunes themselves, you never climb the steep, soft face.
That is a trap of sinking sand.
You take the gentler slope up to the crest, the ridges are highways of wind-packed sand, you follow their spines from one to the next.
It is a slow business--You take your time, or you die.
Pictures
Why does No One Decorate their Homes Anymore?
Chicken Shawerma
Ingredients
Chicken
- 2 1/2 pounds boneless chicken breasts and legs (do not remove the skin)
Marinade
- 1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
- 1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg
- 1/2 teaspoon ground green cardamoms
- 3/4 teaspoon allspice
- 1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
- 1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
- 1/2 teaspoon crushed hot chile peppers
- Salt, to taste
- About 3 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
- 1 teaspoon sumac*, to be sprinkled on after cooking
Garlic Spread
- 2 whole garlic bulbs
- 1 teaspoon salt
- About 1 cup corn oil
- 3 tablespoons lemon juice
Assembly
- Fresh pita bread
- Garlic Spread
- Dill pickle
- French fries
Instructions
- Wash the chicken pieces. Put them into a bowl.
- Mix all the spices with lemon juice. Pour Marinade over chicken and rub well. Marinate for 5 to 6 hours.
- Heat oven to 450 degrees F. Grease a baking dish with oil, put chicken pieces in skin side down, and bake for about 20 minutes.
- Turn chicken pieces over and bake for another 20 minutes.
- Remove chicken from oven and remove the skin. With a sharp knife, shred the chicken and put it back into the baking dish. Sprinkle the sumac over and mix well.
- Peel the garlic and put it into a food processor. Add salt. Process until nicely mashed. Add oil in a thin stream. Keep on processing until oil is mixed with garlic. Add lemon juice. Mix and transfer it to a bowl. (Can be prepared ahead of time).
- Put a thin layer of garlic spread inside one pita bread. Stuff with shredded chicken, a few slices of pickle and French fries. Roll it, then wrap in paper.
- Serve.
Notes
* Ground powder from the cashew family, used as a seasoning
Artemis 2 Moon Mission Story Is FULL OF HOLES!
What could a new U.S. administration do to improve trade relations and regain Canada's trust?
That is going to be the challenge if there is a peaceful transfer of power at the end of Trump’s time in office.
The US used to be a trusted partner. No more. Even if the next administration is sane and reasonable, there will always be the reminder that you elected a nutbar TWICE. How can you be trusted not to do it again. His appointment of RFK has gutted the CDC. The world is scrambling to replace that huge reservoir of medical talent. His irrational behaviour is encouraging the nutbar fringe in every country in the world. We can reasonably expect pandemics to become much more frequent and much more deadly. FOR THE ENTIRE WORLD.
His lack of vision and support for Ukraine and to a lesser extent Taiwan is encouraging every right wing dictator to arm up and make an attempt to take over their neighbour. We have a much higher probability of world war III.
Trump has single handedly dealt the biggest blow to international relations of any individual in recent documented history. Why should we trust the US? After all, next election there may be another nutbar in office.
My best guess is that the US will have to elect sane rational people at all levels of government for a generation before there is a chance for the US to clear it’s name. Elect another nutbar, and it will be two generations.
This doesn’t mean we won’t trade with you, just that we won’t trust you.
I watched 151 celebrity house tours and they’re full of lies
Howl for Home
Written in response to: "Write a story in which a character navigates using the stars."
Isabel Jewell
Toran waited. Waited for him to fight back.
Aakon writhed in pain, but charged with all the strength he had, in a body that could no longer hold it. Toran’s jaws connected with Aakon’s flesh, but this time, his neck. Resounding cries from the pack made Aakon claw back. Giving the last of his last.
But Toran had tasted Aakon’s downfall. His victory. And he shook the vulnerable flesh of his brother with vigour.
It happened too fast.
Aakon fell, heaving as he gurgled in his own pool of blood. Toran prowled around him, hunger in his very breathing.
Destiny had spoken.
“It’s over, brother,” Toran murmured, a feather of sound against a stone of steel.
“S-spare her,” Aakon choked out, feeling Fear as he realized his blood-brother’s face was Death’s. “P-please,” he begged. “The pups.”
Toran weighed his plea. “I’ll show you mercy, brother. The way you showed me mercy when you made me Omega.” He licked the fatal wound of his dying blood-brother. “I’ll send your wife, your pack and your new litter with you into the afterlife.”
Aakon didn’t even have time to choke out a howl of despair.
Toran bit into his neck, holding it with his jaws until Aakon’s body succumbed to snow, motionless. Etruia leaped forward, longing to cover her mate with tears. A piercing wail filled her howl. But they lunged towards her, tearing her apart, until she could cry no more.
Finally, Toran ran into the sacred place, the Place of Peace. The pack’s den. He found the pups, still weak in their furs. One by one, he shook each violently in his jaw, until he felt the crunch in their tiny necks and their mewling ceased. Finally, only the smallest was left. Toran remembered him from the Naming Ceremony.
The runt, Silver.
His own wife was expecting, but he winced at breaking the neck of the weakest of weak. Aakon had once been a runt. He didn’t need to kill his blood-brother twice. And his pack would need an Omega.
Karma was clever.
With a warrior’s howl, Toran left the small bodies of the litter in Peace, while he whisked the runt away to its new home, eeiga.
Sliver, he renamed him.
()-/-()-/-()
North nuzzled him, like a mother might, licking his wet nose. “You’re lucky, Sliver.” Staring at the stars, she smiled weakly. “This is your moon.”
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
I’m the Omega, North. A burden nothing could outweigh. If you stay, you’ll only hurt us both. You should know that.
“You could run away to the Skyline,” she offered, innocently.
His hackles raised at the suggestion, “I can’t leave. This is my life.”
“Sliver.” Her eyes became stern, like a biting frost. “You don’t deserve this.”
“But I’m not a Stray,” Sliver muttered defensively. “I have an eeiga.”
North mournfully eyed the dazzling black horizon. “I’d go, if I could,” a breath of words.
Sliver blinked at her, in shock. “You’re the joika.” The spirit path-maker.
A sigh escaped her. “Doesn’t mean I’m happy.”
He was only fifteen, but his lanky body felt ready.
This was the night he would Shift for the first time and see his human form. His spirit felt strong enough, capable of controlling the cravings.
Snow broke and resettled under the sound of approaching paws. Sliver sniffed the wind. Clay. His nemesis, the dominant one in their litter, but never the strongest. But the noise signaled two wolves. Sliver raised his nose again to the dancing wind.
Not even trying to conceal his scent. Ice.
Ice was a playmate, soft-hearted -- the wolf didn’t even know how to fight with his teeth. But a rebel against Father when it came to helping Sliver. Ice shared his food, joined Sliver to howl together at stars.
Clay only needed to nod at North and she disappeared like a wisp of smoke. Clay circled Sliver, as if to perform the eijak, barring his fangs, tail raised.
Sliver stared blankly at him. “What do you want?”
“Leave,” Clay snarled.
“Make me,” Sliver challenged, unfazed. Clay always came to release anger. Not much better than how the Fearful oppressed packs because of their perceived foreignness. But Sliver didn’t understand why Ice was here.
“Don’t tempt me, runt,” Clay shot back. “This moon is mine. Give it to me or I’ll take it from you.”
“You want me to give you the moon?” Sliver grinned, his tail swaying. “Look, I don’t know why my Shifting came early, but it’s not my fault.”
“Y-you’re mocking me,” Clay blinked, aghast. “Rot your fur, I’ll kill you.”
Sliver anticipated the pounce, the rough tussle, Clay grabbing his muzzle, shaking it. He was embarrassed by Clay nipping his stomach, forcing him to lower his ears in submission, but not surprised.
Until Ice joined in, grabbing Sliver’s neck. It wasn’t a play-grab or ruffling of his scruff to assert himself. It was Sliver’s throat. And it broke the skin.
“Ice -- stop!” Sliver cried at his littermate.
Betrayal cut deeper than the wound, but Ice only shook harder, as Clay pinned him. Sliver watched the stars blur his vision from dizziness. As he bled Sliver, Ice’s eyes were guilty, but that wasn’t enough. A realization that felt like getting winded:
I am going to die.
Sliver scrambled, fighting for his life. He tried to find a gap between their limbs and strength. None came, like being held beneath water. He clawed at snow, sliding further under Ice. Almost. He dug in his paws, inching just close enough --
His teeth grabbed his brother’s underside and tore. A yelp of confusion, pain. But it was the crack in the ice. Clay released pressure, concerned with Ice’s cry. Sliver pulled himself from under them.
And he ran.
Flying across the land he called home, the wind whistled in his ears, find your new star path. He did not know where he was going. But he knew he would survive.
()-/-()-/-()
Sliver couldn’t believe his eyes.
He’d heard endless tales of the Skyline. But that could never describe what he saw. Felt.
It was like standing on the edge of the world, the cosmos spinning around him. Traffic rumbled past, but he smelled a kaleidoscope of people, places. The snow was in brownish banks to the side of every pathway.
The Fearful really don’t follow, but carve their star paths.
He’d run all night, going opposite everything familiar, a straight line South. And just as his bleeding became too much, he had felt it.
A tingling, from his fingers that thrummed through his head, like a war drum. Until it became an acute pain shooting into every limb. The Elder had spoken of the power, but not the helplessness. It had felt like dying. He had howled in desperation, watching his body crack, collapse, and create itself anew.
Then he had sat up, gasping, to see himself, Shifted. Bare, cold. Looking exactly like a Fearful, except for his fangs, his long nails. His long black braid. In a pile beside him had been his shed fur, a blanket of silver. Wrapping it around himself, he had torn at it with his teeth, making holes for his new arms and legs, creating a tuuga. His fur clothing. It had stretched down to his ankles, warmth.
I did it.
Sliver had almost laughed. I Shifted.
That was his very first moon. And he had celebrated it with the shadows of a creeping dawn. Alone.
He shook his head to clear the memories, clutching his tuuga closer. Skyline was an ironic name; the buildings destroyed the horizon, not built it. Unlike home, everything here had a place. Whether it liked it or not. The trees were allowed in a line, the cars were always only on the road, the water was allowed in the fountain. Signs littered the concrete paths, but Sliver couldn’t read them.
People stared.
A child pointed at Sliver’s tuuga, laughing. Sliver still struggled to maintain balance on two legs. He now looked like them, but he could feel how he looked to them. It was obvious he was a Wolf Spirit from his tuuga.
None of them seemed to be One. Each dressed differently, each on their own star path. Their arms didn’t bear markings of their pack.
These were people, the Fearful. They were unable to Shift during a full moon, they lived without a Wolf Spirit. Sliver had heard too many cautionary tales about them.
They will never let you in, no matter how you change for them. In the end, you are left with nothing, you become nothing.
But having a home with the Fearful must be better than being Stray. Than being homeless, haunted by homesickness.
Can they tell I’m a Stray?
He discreetly tucked his long braid into his tuuga; no other men wore it long. Sliver came to a crosswalk, but heard a faint click behind him, turning to see a young woman holding her phone at him. She’s documenting. Me.
“You’re a werewolf!” exclaimed the woman, beaming as she stared into his eyes.
Sliver wondered if he’d accidentally gone Golden. “I’m a Voolnaki,” he corrected. “Spirit Wolf.”
She peered at him with too much interest. “Do you have a name?”
Sliver was offended beyond words, turning away from the crosswalk as a light changed behind him. How did she know I’m an Omega?
()-/-()-/-()
A blaring wail made Sliver cover his ears as he followed the scent of muted grass until he entered a fenced park. It was quiet, but there was another man with a darker complexion.
He has long hair. Sliver noticed his many braids. And he doesn’t seem to mind.
Suddenly, the wailing noise grew louder. The other man looked how Sliver felt, before he ran. Sliver heard a shout from behind him.
“Hey!”
Turning around, Sliver looked directly at a burly man with a sunburned face. The man was angry. At him.
“Get over here, dog.”
Sliver narrowed his eyes, indignant at being called the slur for a Skyliner.
“Hey, take it easy. Whoa, stop that, now! Make your eyes normal! Steady now -- you’d better stop glaring like that. Eyes where I can see them -- attaboy, now: no gold.”
Sliver knew what Golden Eye meant. The Fearful didn’t understand it. Even some Voolnaki couldn’t control their eyes. Some said Golden Eyes was a curse, but the packs believed it was a blessing to protect them. But the sunburned man didn’t view it as either.
To him, it’s an excuse.
Sliver smelled the excitement radiating from the large man as he barked at him to place his heads above him--“No, higher”--to kneel, with his back towards him, on the non-earth.
“What do you want?” Sliver asked, but the man only began patting at his tuuga.
“Weird costume. You’re from the rural resorts, huh?” The large man squinted. “Imma need to see some ID.”
Sliver cocked his head.
The man became infuriated. “Pack ID.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Sliver glanced around; people were watching. Documenting with their phones.
The man seemed pleased. “Then I’m going to need you to step aside, while we sort this out.”
He yanked Sliver from the pavement, taking him to the car. Sliver knew people went inside cars, but instead he was thrown over the hood, splayed like a caught fish.
He squirmed to get free, trying to stay calm.
“Listen up, yellow-eyes. You either show me some damn ID or we go for a little trip down to the station.” He pushed Sliver’s face into the cold, hard car. “You don’t want that.”
“I don’t know what you want!” Sliver wailed, feeling tears threatening to pour.
“Give me your fucking ID, dog!”
Sliver felt his eyes turn. That tingling in his fingernails, a twitch in his jaw. Then a surge. He growled, a roar from the back of his throat and stared at the man.
Immediately, something metal clicked from the man’s pocket and he pointed it at Sliver’s head. A gun.
“I don’t have any ‘ID!” The Fear was all-encompassing. “Let me go! Please, let me go!”
The officer holstered his gun, grabbing him off the hood, opening the door to the car --
“How many times have I said don’t leave without ID, son?” a low voice came from behind them.
Sliver tried to look over his shoulder to see who was talking.
The officer let the stranger come closer. A shorter, middle-aged man with darker skin. “Look at the trouble you’ve caused the officer! Should’ve just listened,” muttered the stranger, patting Sliver on the shoulder.
“Sorry, sir,” the stranger shook the officer’s hand. “Thanks for your time. Teenagers. Never listen, you know.” He winked at Sliver, showing the officer some ID.
Grunting, the officer frowned. “Don’t let it happen again.”
“Never, sir. Have a good one!” The stranger smiled, taking Sliver away by his arm.
He didn’t save me for free.
“Call me, Julio,” he glanced at Sliver. “What’s your name, kid?”
“Sliver.”
A hearty laugh rumbled from Julio’s chest. “No, kid, your name.”
Sliver stared at him, confused.
“Ohhh,” Julio drew out the word. “You’re from a traditional pack, ain’t you? I’ve heard of them.” Julio eyed his tuuga. “You’re far from home, kid.”
I don’t have a home, Sliver wanted to say, but that would be admitting to being Stray.
“How old are you?”
“Fifteen. I just Shifted. My first moon.”
“Wow, okay, so you’re really new, then.” He stroked his chin with his index finger, a black band on it. “You should go back, kid. You stick out here like a sore thumb. This ain’t your home.”
“You’re a Skyline Voolnaki.”
“Yeah,” Julio hesitated. “You could say.”
Dog was the word we called them back home for always adapting to fit in with the Fearful. Some dogs even filed their fangs. Skyliner was the politest way of putting it that Sliver knew.
“People will think you’re a spy, pup,” he told Sliver.
“I couldn’t stop it,” Sliver confessed, suddenly. “I went Golden Eyes.” He bowed his head, ashamed that he couldn’t control the shade of his eyes. The building Shift.
“You’re new to the city, kid -- just Shifted. Why’d you come here? Most packs . . . out there . . . don’t like making contact.”
“I-I, well, I was . . .” Sliver hung his head. Rejected. Hunted. Abandoned.
“Hey,” Julio tapped Sliver’s shoulder. “Chin up, pup. You stay with us in the meantime.” He smiled, “We’ll get you proper clothes. And kid, you really need a new name.”
Sliver shrunk. “I like my tuuga,” he conceded. It felt -- smelled -- safe.
“Fine, just a new name then. Sliver’s a nickname. I know you guys call it your ‘Spirit name’ or whatever, but here, we have our name-name and a nickname.”
Sliver hated his name, but most Omegas were nameless.
Julio snapped. “Hey, why not Silver?”
()-/-()-/-()
Sitting with his back to the Skyline, Silver had driven from the bustling centre to the city’s edge, where he could see the stars. It was a full moon eijak, cycle, since he’d lost his home. His eeiga. Every part of him felt changed, reinvented. The ancestors likely shook their heads woefully.
But I’m alive to feel their wrath.
He imagined Ice tussling with a new playmate. How Clay would have found a different Omega to pin in the dirt. And he wondered -- hoped -- North might be longing for him to return.
Home.
A cure, a blessing when there. And a curse, a sickness when absent.
His hand ran over his newly-shaven head, missing its traditional braid. Stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jeans, the Elder’s words echoed in his mind:
We, the Wolf Spirits, follow in our ancestors’ star paths.
Whenever you are lost, howl for home.
And we will always find our way to you.
Lifting his moonlit face, he climbed atop Julio’s truck. If only. Finally, he let the tears spill, the emptiness becoming his fill. If only you’d come find me.
With a loud cry, Silver turned to the North Star and howled a last goodbye to home.
Mandela Effects You’ve Never Heard About
Think you know the Mandela Effect? Think again. In this episode, we go beyond the classics—Berenstain Bears, Monopoly monocles, Fruit of the Loom—and dive into the strange ones you have probably never heard of. From shifting continents and altered prayers to body parts in the wrong place, these glitches are not viral trivia. They feel personal. They make you question not just memory, but reality itself. Are they false memories, simulation patches, or signs of parallel timelines? Watch now to explore the forgotten side of the Mandela Effect—and decide for yourself if reality is playing tricks on us.
Chicken with Olives
This excellent Middle Eastern dish is a particularly Moroccan specialty.
Ingredients
- 1 large roasting chicken (about 4 pounds)
- 2 1/2 tablespoons oil
- 2 onions, sliced
- Salt and black pepper
- 1/4 to 1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
- 1 teaspoon paprika
- 1 onion, finely chopped
- 1/2 pound green or black olives
- Juice of 1/2 lemon, or more
Instructions
- Wash the chicken and wipe it with a damp cloth.
- Heat the oil in a large saucepan. Add about 3/4 cup water very gradually, stirring vigorously.
- Add onion slices, sprinkle with salt, pepper, ginger and paprika, and lay the chicken on top. Cook over low heat, covered, for 1 hour, turning the chicken frequently. Add a little more salt if necessary, and the finely chopped onion, and cook for 1/2 hour longer.
- Pit the olives. Put them into a pan, cover with cold water, bring to the boil, and leave for 1 minute. Drain off the water and repeat the process. This will remove excess salt.
- Add the olives to the pan and cook with the chicken for a few minutes only.
- Just before serving, squeeze a little lemon juice over the dish. Sometimes a few pickled lemon slices are added just before serving.
- Serve with plain boiled rice or couscous.
A Book of Middle Eastern Food by Claudia Roden
Why is it more dangerous to have a plane's center of gravity too far back, and what can a pilot do if they find themselves in that situation?
Northrop's "Tacit Blue" (a stealth early warning aircraft prototype) might be the most unstable aircraft ever to have successfully flown. This means its center of gravity (CG) is very far aft, well behind the aerodynamic center (AC). This would be extremely dangerous for a normal aircraft, and it's all related to this flying whale's shape, optimized for stealth.
Every second it flies requires the assistance of a flight control computer, deflecting all control surfaces with extreme precision and a reaction speed of hundreds of times per second.
If a pilot were to control it directly, based on wind tunnel test results, it would be impossible:
Imagine you take "Tacit Blue" into the air, flying level at a constant speed, and then a mysterious force cuts off the computer connection and connects your control stick directly to the control surfaces.
For the first few seconds, nothing seems out of the ordinary.
Suppose you gently pull back on the stick, the aircraft pitches up, which is fine.
When you release the stick, the aircraft's pitch-up doesn't stop; instead, it pitches up faster and faster!
Within a few seconds, it will be flying tail-first, decelerating violently until it stalls, and then drop to the ground like a brick.
When a pilot releases the controls, the aircraft should reduce its maneuver and stop – this is a fundamental principle of aircraft design.
For an aircraft without a flight control computer, this requires it to be statically stable, meaning its center of gravity is ahead of the aerodynamic center.
The further forward the CG, the clunkier the control but the faster it stops a maneuver.
The further aft the CG, the easier the control but it won't stop easily.
For aircraft with flight control computers that are statically unstable (like "Tacit Blue"), when the pilot stops a maneuver, the computer immediately deflects the control surfaces in the opposite direction to stabilize the aircraft. Computers typically have triple redundancy, because if they all fail, the pilot will have no chance whatsoever of recovering the aircraft.
The Downfall of Tinder Explained in 11 Minutes
