Today, I am going to offer the reader a hours’ worth of Japanese Rhythm and Blues with Japanese “City Pop” in a “Smooth Groove” mix. with WTMR.
It’s a little different than my usual stuff. But hey, I am experimenting and pushing my very own boundaries. I’m trying my hand at versatile experimentation.
So enjoy today…
Japanese RnB / CITY POP Smooth Groove Mix “WTMR BGM-41” [Playlist, R&B, シティ・ポップ, DJ Mix, Chill]
Why is China not seen as just as much of an enemy to Canada as the US?
I’d like to digress a bit.
Relatively speaking, Chinese people hold no hostility towards Canadians, and in fact, they have a very favorable impression of them.
If you come to China for tourism and say that you are Canadian, you will feel that people around you immediately seem to have a bit of goodwill towards you.
This is because during the Japanese invasion of China, a Canadian doctor named Norman Bethune came to China and treated many wounded soldiers.
Unfortunately, he died due to an infected wound and was posthumously recognized as a revolutionary martyr of the People’s Republic of China.
He was highly skilled in medicine and could have easily made a fortune, but he gave up everything to come to an incredibly poor China to help those in the greatest suffering.
We will remember his kindness ,generations after generations.
If you find a hospital in China named after “Bethune,” rest assured, it must be an excellent hospital.
There are dozens of such hospitals, all of high quality.
For example, the Jilin Bethune Medical College is actually the First Military Medical University of the People’s Liberation Army of China.
What was the biggest culture shock you experienced while living in or visiting Saudi Arabia?
There were several ” culture shocks ” that I experienced when I visited Saudi Arabia, especially when I was in the cities of Mecca and Medina during the 2018 Hajj pilgrimage (before Covid-19):
1> My wife and I were going to eat at the fried chicken restaurant “AlBaik”, like KFC in Indonesia. When I was about to enter the ground floor restaurant with my wife, my wife was stopped and not allowed to enter, I was confused. After I heard the explanation in English, it turned out that we had to go to the 2nd floor specifically for families. The ground floor is only for male visitors.
This is a photo update from when we first went to Albaik in Medina and my wife wasn’t allowed to enter, so we ended up eating on the terrace like this.
After eating, I passed this guy selling Pepsi and asked to have his photo taken, hehe:
2> Do not listen to music in any public place. Even in restaurants, malls, hotel lobbies or buses, let alone in mosques. There is also no such thing as religious music being played in public places.
3> Never heard the recitation of dhikr or shalawat from the loudspeaker in any mosque. The mosque loudspeaker is only for the call to prayer, iqomah, sermon and congregational prayer. Meanwhile in Indonesia, starting at 3-4 am, the sound of dhikr or shalawat can be heard from various mosques.
4> Never seen dirt in the Grand Mosque or the Prophet’s Mosque in Medina. Cleaning and security personnel are always on standby in every corner.
5> Apparently, many traders in various shops can speak Indonesian. This is because the Indonesian pilgrims who like to shop and are very dominant in various places. Jaafaria Souq is a popular place for shopping in Mecca.
6> It turns out that in Saudi Arabia there are also beggars, especially during the Hajj season. But it seems that the beggars are not native Arabs, maybe from Africa. This is what they look like, I met them when I came back from throwing stones at the devils in Mina:
7> It turns out that in Saudi Arabia, there are no buildings built on graves. They are just mounds of earth, like this. So whatever your rank, rich or poor, the graves are the same. And, only men are allowed to visit here. Women are prohibited from entering.
China warns US ‘We will resolutely respond to bullying’, will ‘play along to the end’
Hungarian Goulash
Ingredients
- 2 pounds round steak, cubed
- 1 cup chopped onion
- 1 clove garlic, minced
- 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
- 1 teaspoon salt
- 1/2 teaspoon pepper
- 1 1/2 teaspoons paprika
- 1/4 teaspoon dried thyme, crushed
- 1 bay leaf
- 1 (14 1/2 ounce) can tomatoes
- 1 cup sour cream
Instructions
- Put steak cubes, onion, garlic in slow cooker. Stir in flour and mix to coat steak cubes.
- Add all remaining ingredients EXCEPT sour cream. Stir well.
- Cover and cook on LOW for 8 to 10 hours.
- Add sour cream 30 minutes before serving, and stir in thoroughly.
- Serve over hot buttered noodles.
U.S. CORNERED: China Shuts Down U.S. Rare Earth Smuggling Route — Trump Is Panicking!
This just came out. Watch it.
China just shut down the Pentagon’s rare earth workaround—and now U.S. defense systems may stop working in 90 days.
In May 2025, Beijing didn’t just ban exports. It exposed and dismantled the smuggling routes keeping America’s F-35 jets and submarines operational.
A $12.1 million shipment disguised as cosmetics was traced, and allies like South Korea and the U.K. are now under scrutiny.
This video breaks down:
How China’s traceability platform cut off the gray market Why 97% of U.S. rare earths still depend on Chinese refining What the Pentagon warns will happen if supply runs dry
This isn’t just about minerals—it’s about power, logistics, and global leverage. Watch now to see what happens next if China pulls the master plug.
Boxing the Moon
Submitted into Contest #210 in response to: Write about a character who has to grapple with something completely alien to them.… view prompt
Kelsey H
“What’s out there, Jesse?” his mother asked, following his gaze. The curtains were open, stars appearing in the purple sky. No clouds.
“It’s an eclipse tonight, remember,” he told her, and she nodded and smiled, already standing to clear the table before heading out to work. His father glanced at him across the table, pausing in his talk of Jay’s upcoming boxing fight, such a look of baffled regard that for a minute Jesse looked away from the sky.
After dinner he read his chapters for English homework, then he went and sat outside to wait. His dad and brother sparred under the carport, shadows moving across the concrete floor. They swung, ducked, occasionally swore or laughed at things Jesse couldn’t see. They didn’t look up to see the moon, they never did.
Jesse lifted the binoculars, keeping the covers on the lenses until they were trained at the sky, then he popped them off and looked at the dizzying expanse of stars. He was careful not to ever aim them at the house down the street, where he had once seen the teenage daughter undressing in her second level bedroom.
For a long minute he’d been transfixed, stars and planets forgotten as he watched the girl, her bedroom lit up like a world all of its own. Then he’d felt himself hot and prickly with shame, he yanked the binoculars down and just about fell through the door going back inside.
When he’d first requested the binoculars for his twelfth birthday, he hadn’t understood why Jay laughed through a mouthful of cereal. Their dad had reached around to pat his back, higher up than Jesse would have thought was helpful to a person who was coughing.
“Don’t choke now,” he had said in a warning tone, but he’d looked mildly amused himself. At who’s expense Jesse wasn’t sure. His father was the most unknown force there was.
The solar system was less a mystery to him than people were. He didn’t understand why his brother loved boxing, getting up in that ring knowing he was going to have to hurt another person, be hurt himself. He didn’t understand why the way his dad stared into the night while he smoked on the porch could make him feel lonely right to his bones.
He put the binoculars down again, checked the time and shifted on the porch, the last warmth of the sun still seeping through the concrete.
His dad and brother split apart again, facing each other, Jay nodding as his dad said something to him. He’d been a boxer too once, their dad.
Maybe there’d been a time, when Jesse was newly born and still unknown, when his dad had hope of him following in his footsteps. Maybe once he imagined both his sons out there sparring with him, getting into the ring, fists punching flesh.
But that hope must have been abandoned long ago. Jesse’s lungs clenched up tight when he tried to run. He flinched when his dad feigned punches and told him to duck. Hurt his hand when he tried to swing it into his dad’s waiting palm.
Earlier that year, his dad had made a last futile attempt at teaching him to fight, after Jesse made the mistake of complaining about a bully in his class.
He’d taken him out to the carport, gave him the gloves to put on, told him to swing a punch. “Right here, Jess, right in the nose.”
Jesse tried, arms flailing, feet slapping the ground, imagining for a moment that smile his dad gave when Jay won a fight aimed at him. But after a few minutes he felt the familiar terror, his throat closing, and he pushed the gloves off and threw them on the ground, grabbed his inhaler from his pocket.
He put it to his mouth and sucked on it, relief flooding down with it. His dad stayed beside him, watching, his gaze concerned and reproachful.
“You’re gonna have to learn to take care of yourself, me and Jay can’t always be there,” he said after a while.
“I know,” Jesse said, even though he couldn’t imagine them ever not being there.
The next day he walked out of school and found his brother there waiting. “Show me who he is,” he said, and Jesse did, a mix of shame and gladness twisting in him. He watched Jay haul the boy up against the fence by his collar, hold a drawn fist ready and hiss threats until the bully was crying and apologising. After Jay was trespassed from the school, and his dad stuck the notice on the fridge as if it were an award.
He watched his dad switch off the light of the carport, then the spark of his lighter in the darkness. Jay walked over and stopped in front of him, stood swinging his arms and gazing into nothing for a minute.
“What time is it happening?” he asked, nodding toward the sky. Jesse had told him about it the night before. He had been lying on the trampoline watching the sun sink into the horizon when Jay arrived home from the gym. He walked over and boosted himself up beside Jesse, lay down on his stomach and dropped his chin onto his arms. He looked weary, his shirt damp with sweat.
“Tell me something,” he said, looking down at the mesh of the tramp. So, Jesse told him about the upcoming Eclipse, how it would happen, what they would see. Jay didn’t say anything, just listened, a rare stillness in him.
“It’s meant to start at 10.15,” Jesse said now, hoping Jay was going to stay out and watch it with him. But he only jumped up the steps and headed inside.
His dad walked over, the tip of a cigarette glowing and bobbing as he moved. He stopped beside the porch, blew smoke toward the air. “What you doing, Jess?”
“Waiting for the eclipse,” Jesse said.
“It’s getting late, you need to get inside.”
“Can I stay out here to watch dad, please?” He resorted to pleading, like Jay never would have. And his father only shrugged, like he never would have if it was Jay arguing.
“If you want to,” he said. He flicked the cigarette away and Jesse waited for him to go inside after Jay, probably going to watch boxing clips and discuss the faults and merits of the fighters. He should have told his dad the earth was going to box the moon, then he might have been interested.
But instead he sat down on the step beside Jesse. “So, how long then?” he asked. Jesse glanced at him, waiting for the questions to come. What’s an eclipse? How does it happen? He hated having to explain it to him, even though he never minded explaining to Jay.
“He’s taking an interest, Jesse,” his mother rebuked, when he complained to her about the questions his dad asked. How do they know how hot the sun is? How do they really know how far away the stars away? But his dad never had to take an interest when he talked boxing with Jay.
“It’s going to start soon,” Jesse said. “The moon starts turning red.”
“Yeah, I seen it once, when I was a kid.”
“You did? How old were you?” The thought of his young father all those years ago, staring up into the sky, made him feel closer to him. He wondered if that was how it felt for Jay when he boxed with him.
“About eighteen maybe. Didn’t know what the hell I was looking at but my brother was with me, he told me.”
Jesse almost froze, almost forget entirely about what they were waiting for. His dad never spoke of his younger brother, who had died before Jay was born.
“Did he like space?” Jesse asked, trying to imagine his unknown uncle standing beside his father, looking up at the sky.
His dad had a photo of him he kept in his draw, under the tee shirts. Jesse had found it once when he was looking for an old shirt to use for art class, and he pulled it out cautiously, feeling as if it were a forbidden item.
His dad was instantly known to him, the boy beside him a stranger, and yet Jesse had known him too. They both stared unsmiling and hard eyed into the camera. A date scrawled on the back. 15/04/98. His dad would have been sixteen then, although he looked older. Jesse’s heart had thudded as he slid the photo back in place, that buried thing of his dads.
“Yeah, he did,” his dad said. “He was real smart, like you.”
His dad smiled at him and Jesse shifted closer to him. “Did he want you to watch it with him?” He thought of Jay, his futile hope he’d spark his brothers’ interest in watching it with him.
“Nah, we were just out and happened to see it. Come on, give us a look with those.”
Jesse passed him the binoculars and watched him raise them to his eyes. Sweep the sky with them.
“Here, dad,” he said, putting a hand on his dads’ arm to slow it. He guided his hands until he was aiming the lenses for the moon. “Tell me when you see it,” he said. The shadow was just beginning to haze the moon. He wanted his dad to see it even more than he wanted to see it himself.
“Yeah,” his dad said, stopping. For a moment he sat in silence. Jesse wondered if he was thinking of his brother. If he remembered being young.
His dad passed him the binoculars. “Here, you have them,” he said. “You been waiting long enough to see this.”
He stood up and walked away to light another cigarette. Jesse raised his eyes to the sky. He could smell the smoke on the air. He watched as the shadow of the earth covered up the moon.
He thought of his dad watching this with his brother, and all these years later watching it with him. He felt the link between himself and his dad, an eternal bond far beyond whether or not Jesse liked sports.
It seemed so strange, how things happened that seemed like they must mean something, but were nothing more than the universe doing what it did.
Why are people adopting DeepSeek’s AI when its answers are so obviously biased toward the Chinese worldview propaganda?
You can download the source code for DeepSeek from GitHub and you can modify it locally running on your own hardware. If you want to modify your system to hate the Chinese government, you can do it.
On the other hand, I cannot stop ChatGPT from censoring its own answers when it comes to the Israel/Palestine issue because it is a proprietary system and no one can access the source code.
The U.S. Just Sent a MASSIVE Warning to BRICS – What Happens Next is Terrifying
American RedNote Users Share Their Experience on RedNote App | We can’t Believe what we see in China
As the U.S. faces the prospect of a TikTok ban, a new digital trend has emerged American users are flocking to Xiaohongshu, known in English as RedNote.
Often described as China’s answer to Instagram, this platform has quickly transformed into a unique gathering space for these “TikTok refugees” and their Chinese counterparts, setting the stage for a vibrant cultural exchange.
On RedNote, Americans have been opening up about their lives, sharing topics like grocery prices, housing costs, and healthcare struggles.
Meanwhile, Chinese users are providing a window into their world, discussing education systems, family traditions, and everyday life.
This back-and-forth has fostered an unprecedented sense of connection and understanding between the two cultures. The transition hasn’t been without its challenges.
Many Americans are learning to navigate RedNote’s stricter content moderation policies, influenced by Chinese regulations.
Posts have occasionally been removed for minor violations, sparking conversations about the contrasting approaches to censorship in the two nations.
Despite these hurdles, the platform has sparked curiosity and interest among American users. A growing number are diving into Mandarin lessons and exploring Chinese culture more deeply, with language learning platforms reporting a surge in users eager to connect.
In a time of growing digital divides, the migration to RedNote is proving to be more than just a shift in social media platforms it’s a bridge between cultures, fostering meaningful exchanges and building global understanding.
What is the strangest thing you’ve found inside of a wall in a home?
When I was a tween, a friend and I were helping his dad tear out the lathe out of an old abandoned building.
Before drywall, we used lath and plaster. It was much , much more labor intensive. Lath are thin narrow boards, much like what we put flagging on for surveys. They made perfect swords for tweens. Our job was to pound all of the nails out of them.
Anyway, when the lath was removed, the walls had been insulated with what I assume is the original copy of a news paper, that would be used to make all of the extra prints.
It’s a very hard, fairly thick material, that is like a tough thick cardboard. The words were all stamped into the mildly flexible cardboard, on one side and projected from the other side. So were the pictures. You could imagine these rolling over newsprint, depositing ink.
They were from our local newspaper, the Gleichen Call, that quit printing about the time I was born. They were full of news of the first World war.
I took something like 10 home with me, and over the years I have thrown out most, but I still have a few.
The Gleichen Call was printed from 1907 to 1956. It says that a yearly subscription cost $1.80 , on the front page.
The University of Calgary has ever issue digitized, so my find doesn’t have any historical value.
Is it appropriate for a father and his 23 yr old daughter to get intoxicated together, and go on vacations together?
It may not be inappropriate, but it can be dangerous.
I speak from personal experience.
My father took me to a bar when I was 17. He bought alcohol for me, and he was drinking. Fortunately, I didn’t much like the taste of the vodka and orange juice, so didn’t drink much of it.
On the way home, my dear old dad tried to get me to kiss him.
Not a give your old Dad a kiss, honey. But a, “Kiss me, baby,” kinda kiss.
I should have seen it coming, but I was young and naive.
Fortunately for me, I was old enough and smart enough to know better. I told him no and pushed him away. We were on a dark country road in the middle of nowhere, so added to my angst was the fear that maybe he’d just kill me and dump me out of the car so no one would ever find out what he’d done.
He drove me home, apologizing all the way, while also confessing how badly he had wanted me for at least a year. And, because of the way he explained it, I was left feeling like it was all my fault.
He did irreparable damage to our relationship. I was never EVER comfortable with him again. And to this day I have never forgiven him for doing that to me, along with the damage that can linger, even now, at the ripe old age of 70. He’s dead now and I’m still angry that he did that to me.
To this day, I thank God that he and my mother were divorced so I didn’t have to be around him all the time. Even now, thinking about it, makes my skin crawl.
I’ve spent years having issues dealing with men who make me feel uncomfortable, recognizing when I have good reason for feeling that way, and struggling with telling them how they are making me feel—never mind telling them to leave me the hell alone.
Don’t do it. It is not worth the risk of things that can happen when inhibitions are numbed by intoxicating substances.
Trust me, because sadly, I know.
Shorpy
Title: Sir Whiskerton and the Case of the Quack Quack Chorus: A Ribbiting Ruckus
Ah, dear reader, welcome back to another uproarious adventure on the farm, where the animals are as quirky as ever and the chaos is always just one quack away. Today’s tale features Leonardo, the ever-ambitious bullfrog, who—under the dubious guidance of Lucifer—decides to start a “Quack Quack Singing School” for the geese and hens. What follows is a cacophony so terrible it attracts the attention of Bigcat and his fearsome general, Catticus. But fear not, for Sir Whiskerton, Catnip, and even Count Catula are here to save the day—with a little help from Bessie the Tie-Dye Cow. So grab your earplugs, dear reader, and prepare for a story filled with laughs, lessons, and a whole lot of noise.
Leonardo’s Latest Scheme
It all began on a sunny morning, the kind where the dew sparkled like diamonds and the air smelled faintly of hay and mischief. I was lounging on my favorite fencepost, enjoying the peace and quiet, when Leonardo the bullfrog hopped into view, his tiny bow tie slightly askew.
“Sir Whiskerton!” Leonardo croaked, puffing out his chest. “I have a brilliant new idea!”
“Oh no,” I muttered, my whiskers twitching. “What is it this time?”
“I’m starting a school!” Leonardo declared, his eyes shining with enthusiasm. “A Quack Quack Singing School, to be exact. I’ll teach the geese and hens how to sing like Ferdinand the duck!”
“Sing like Ferdinand?” I said, raising an eyebrow. “Leonardo, have you heard Ferdinand sing? It’s… an acquired taste.”
“Nonsense!” Leonardo said, waving a webbed hand dismissively. “With my guidance, the geese and hens will be quacking like pros in no time. And who better to help me than Lucifer, the farm’s resident visionary?”
“Visionary?” I said, narrowing my eyes. “Lucifer’s more of a… chaos enthusiast.”
Before I could stop him, Leonardo hopped off to recruit his first students, leaving me to wonder just how bad this could get.
The Quack Quack Chorus
Leonardo’s school began with great fanfare. The geese and hens gathered in the barn, their feathers ruffled with excitement, while Lucifer stood on a hay bale, delivering a rousing speech.
“My fellow farm animals,” Lucifer squeaked, his red fur glistening in the sunlight. “Today, we embark on a journey of musical discovery. Together, we shall create a chorus so magnificent, so awe-inspiring, that the farmer himself will weep with joy!”
“Weep with joy!” Doris the hen clucked, flapping her wings. “Oh, how thrilling!”
“Thrilling! But also so artistic!” Harriet added.
“Artistic! Oh, I can’t bear it!” Lillian screeched, fainting into a pile of hay.
Leonardo took center stage, clearing his throat dramatically. “Alright, everyone,” he croaked. “Follow my lead. Quack… quack… QUAAAAACK!”
The geese and hens joined in, their voices rising in a cacophony so terrible it made Ferdinand’s singing sound like a symphony. The cows mooed in distress, the pigs squealed, and even Rufus the dog covered his ears with his paws.
“Make it stop!” Rufus howled. “It’s like a thousand rusty hinges being dragged across a chalkboard!”
Bigcat Investigates
The noise was so unbearable that it reached the ears of Bigcat, the burly feline who had recently tried to take over the farm. He arrived with his entourage, including Catticus, his most fearsome general.
“What in the name of whiskers is going on here?” Bigcat growled, his muscles rippling as he surveyed the chaos.
“It’s a… musical revolution,” Lucifer said, puffing out his chest. “A symphony of the people!”
“A symphony?” Catticus sneered, his green eyes narrowing. “Sounds more like a disaster.”
“Disaster! But also so avant-garde!” Harriet clucked.
“Avant-garde! Oh, I can’t bear it!” Lillian screeched, fainting again.
The Confrontation
As tensions rose, I stepped forward, my tail flicking impatiently. “Bigcat, Catticus, this isn’t your territory. Leave the farm animals to their… creative endeavors.”
“Creative endeavors?” Catticus said, baring his teeth. “This noise is an affront to feline dignity. I won’t stand for it.”
“Neither will I,” Catnip said, slinking out of the shadows with his usual smirk. “But not because of the noise. I just don’t like sharing the spotlight.”
Before things could escalate, Count Catula appeared, his cape billowing dramatically in the breeze. “Gentlemen,” he said, his voice dripping with theatrical flair. “Must we resort to violence? Can we not settle this like civilized creatures?”
“Civilized?” Bigcat snorted. “This farm is anything but civilized.”
Bessie Saves the Day
Just as the situation seemed about to spiral out of control, Bessie the Tie-Dye Cow sauntered into the barn, her colorful coat shimmering in the sunlight.
“Hey, dudes,” Bessie said, her voice calm and dreamy. “What’s with all the bad vibes? Can’t we all just… chill?”
“Chill?” Bigcat said, raising an eyebrow. “Do I look like the kind of cat who chills?”
“You could try,” Bessie said, swishing her tail. “A little peace, a little love, and maybe some meditation. It’s all about the cosmic energy, man.”
To everyone’s surprise, Bigcat and Catticus hesitated. Even Catnip looked momentarily stunned.
“Fine,” Bigcat grumbled. “But if I hear one more quack, I’m coming back.”
“Same,” Catticus said, though he looked slightly less menacing.
A Happy Ending
With the crisis averted, Leonardo reluctantly shut down his Quack Quack Singing School. The geese and hens returned to their usual routines, though Doris couldn’t resist humming Ferdinand’s signature quack every now and then.
The moral of the story, dear reader, is this: not every idea is a good one, and sometimes it’s better to stick to what you know. And as for Sir Whiskerton? Well, I’ll always be here to keep the peace—one quack at a time.
Until next time, my friends.
The End.
If you were the CEO of NVIDIA, how would you respond to the Trump administration considering tightening restrictions on NVIDIA’s sales to China?
If I were Jensen Huang, I would say:
“NVIDIA understands and respects the national security concerns of the U.S. government. We will continue to work closely with regulators to ensure compliance with all export controls. At the same time, we believe in fostering a competitive and innovative global semiconductor ecosystem that benefits the U.S. economy, our shareholders, and technological advancement worldwide. Thank you.”
AI is the new arms race and the semiconductor industry is one of the few areas where the U.S. still has a major lead over China.
The whole idea to ban export is due Military & National Security Concerns because high-end GPUs (like the A100, H100) are crucial for training advanced AI models. And having access those means they could use them for military AI, such as, Autonomous weapons Surveillance & cyber warfare Advanced missile and drone targeting systems.
But then again China has been working on its own GPU alternatives (Huawei Ascend, Biren BR100), but they’re not on par with NVIDIA yet.
The U.S. knows China will eventually close the AI hardware gap, but every year of delay gives the U.S. an edge.
And to keep Nvidia revenue streams alive staying within legal boundaries they also needs to accelerate the development of “China-compliant” versions (similar to the A800, H800 approach).
But we have already seen how this has backfired too.
Their Deepseek team made one mathematical formula and it wiped out almost $2 trillion value, just because they were on bare minimum.
Just think for a second, it’s one f**king formula and the whole AI world is shaken to it’s core.
These Deepseek guys went to the insane level writing PTX and even SASS level code to squeeze every last bit of efficiency out of their limited NVIDIA hardware.
I mean writing Cuda is considered low level these days, who on the right mind does ptx let alone the assembly version(SASS).
So I just want to wrap it up with thought for the day: Sometimes ultimate necessity is the mother of Invention I guess.
The Alcoholic Husband
Submitted into Contest #210 in response to: Write about a character who has to grapple with something completely alien to them.… view prompt
Melissa Behrend
“Yes, I am. What’s it to you?” he asks.
“What do you mean, what’s it to me? I’m also here, watching this show, and I’d like to actually watch it.”
He gets up and walks toward the kitchen. As soon as I think he’s out of earshot, I call him an alcoholic under my breath.
He hears me, but maybe I meant for him to. “What did you say?” he asks me.
“Nothing.” He heard me, and I meant it. It’s always one more drink.
“I’m not an alcoholic.”
“Aren’t you?” I ask. “It’s ten o’clock on a Friday night and you’ve had a glass of wine at dinner and three whiskeys. That seems like a lot. I’m just worried,” I say. I mean, I am worried, but I’m also over it.
“I’m not an alcoholic. I have a couple drinks on the weekends. That’s it. It’s fine. An alcoholic drinks every day. I don’t. I’m fine.”
I sigh, loudly—on purpose. In the kitchen, I hear him mix his drink.
When he walks back into the living room, I shake my head. I can tell by his face he’s pissed.
He picks up the remote and unpauses the TV.
“Finally,” I say. When we finish the show I get up to go to bed. I’m going to read. I can’t handle another hour of pausing and unpausing the show.
“I’m going to bed,” I tell him. “Enjoy your whiskey. I’m sure you’ll have another.”
Before I know what’s happening, he’s up and across the room. He slams my back against the wall, the artwork on the wall shakes. His hands are around my throat, squeezing. I can’t breathe.
I try to scream, but I can’t catch my breath. He’s grinning, maniacally. His eyes are bulging out of his head and I’m sure mine are too. He won’t stop squeezing. All I can see are tiny pinpoints of light, like bright dust particles.
Then, I don’t see anything. Not for a while.
No idea how long I’m out, but suddenly I can feel myself back in my body. I’m slumped on the ground, leaning against the living room wall. I can’t move or speak, but I can think. I’m in here, somewhere. He’s nowhere to be found. If I know my husband at all, he didn’t call anyone. He’s going to try and cover this up. He probably had a drink and went to bed. Hoping things will look better in the morning.
I don’t know how much time has passed, but I feel him step back into the living room. I can’t turn my head or move my body. This feels like a terrible dream.
Now I see him. He takes a step toward me and stops. Fucker. Coward. He better not cry and whine and tear at his clothing.
He doesn’t. Well, he should cry and whine and tear at his clothing! After all, he killed me!
He leaves. I hear him in the kitchen. Is he pouring a drink? He is! I hear the ice cubes rattling around a highball glass. You’ve GOT to be kidding me. Only last night he swore he wasn’t an alcoholic, and now he’s starting his day with a drink?
Ah, well, he did kill his wife last night. I guess that might push a borderline alcoholic right over the line.
So, what’s he going to do now? I wonder. I’ve watched every true crime documentary on Netflix, and we’ve binged a lot of shows about serial killers. Maybe he learned something from them. He could pull a Dexter and chop me up into parts and throw me in the lake. But the only lake near here is always packed and we don’t have a boat. He’d have to toss me in the shallow water and pray the tide takes me out.
Or, what’s that musical where the guy kills people and uses them for meat? We don’t have a meat grinder, though. He could bury me in the backyard like they do in that one movie…’The Burbs’? But the neighbors might see and complain that he didn’t have a permit.
He could leave me under a floorboard like in the ‘Tell-Tale Heart’. Oh, shit, he just might. I bet he puts me under the house. We’ve got that creepy crawl space. I don’t think he’s read Poe, but wouldn’t it be juicy if he put me under there and then freaked out? I wonder if I could help make that happen?
I mean, look at him, he’s not even sad! I haven’t heard him cry a single tear. He’s probably thrilled his nagging bitch of a wife is gone. It will suit him to be single. Drinking, eating pizza, watching TV. No one at all around to nag (but no one around to clean or grocery shop, either).
The best part of all this is he can’t cash in my life insurance policy—and it’s a juicy one! Take that, you asshole.
I hear him make another drink (another one?!) and then he’s back in the living room, turning on the TV. What a prick. His dead wife is sprawled against the wall and he’s watching TV. But what did I expect?
Sometime later, he leaves the room. Going to bed I assume. I don’t know where I go, but suddenly I’m back and he’s here, in the living room. He picks up my body, or at least tries to, sort of muscling along, trying to get my body over his shoulder. He does a reasonable facsimile of this and stumbles under my weight to the back door (just for the record, I was a slim woman. Worked out, ate right. Thin, 5’8”. I can only assume the term ‘dead weight’ refers to the fact we seem to weigh more after death.)
He hesitates out on the deck. Probably checking there are no lights on in any of the neighbors’ upstairs windows. The coast must be clear because down the stairs we go. At the bottom, he drops me to the ground. That would’ve hurt if I was still alive.
Then, he grabs me by my feet and drags me under the deck. I hear the crawl space open and next thing I know I’m being dragged into that dark, dirty, scary place. I never ventured in here when I was alive. Too many creepy crawlies. And now I guess I’ll spend the rest of…what? Eternity down here? Fantastic.
He’s backing into the crawl space, dragging me along. I kind of enjoy it because I know he hates it down here, too. Spiders, bugs, maybe a rat or raccoon. He doesn’t go in for any of that.
He drops my legs to the ground and runs. Must have hit a spiderweb or something. I can hear him slam the crawl space door. Now, it’s just dark.
He’ll probably go back to bed and sleep like a baby.
Alone in the dark, I wonder why I’m still hanging around. Is this normal? Can I do anything? I try and will my hands to move. My head to turn. It takes a while, but at last, I feel a wiggle in my finger. Just one finger. But it’s a win!
With a little more concentration, my entire hand moves. Then the other. Then a foot flexes. My head turns. I see beady eyes looking at me. Shit. A rat.
Can I get up? I push myself to a seated position, then I stand. I’m shaky on my feet, and my neck feels funny, but I’m up. I look down and realize I’m still on the ground, too. I’m here, and I’m there. Talk about an out-of-body-experience. I see my dead body lying there on the ground, but I’m standing over it—and I can see this body, too.
I can move it, albeit slowly and jerkily, but it’s me. I turn towards the door and push. Instead of opening the door, I fall through it. Aha, so that’s how it is.
I drag myself out from under the deck. One of my feet doesn’t want to cooperate. I’m not used to being dead; this is a bit alien to me. But I’m doing it.
It seems to take me forever to get to the bottom of the deck stairs. I grab the railing with both hands and hoist myself up the five steps to the deck. I trip on the top one and basically fall into the back door. He must not be around, because I don’t hear anything. No reaction to the noise I’ve just made. I try to turn the handle. My fingers are completely foreign to me; they don’t want to grasp the door handle. They don’t want to turn it. Finally, though, I remember what happened with the crawl space and I just push through the door. I lean against the kitchen island. Whew.
I would say I’m catching my breath, but I’m not breathing.
He comes into the kitchen and walks straight to the cabinet, not looking right or left. Doesn’t see me. This might be fun.
“A drink this early?” I ask. “And you say you’re not an alcoholic.”
I laugh as his head snaps to the side. I know what he’s thinking. This can’t be right. He buried me under the house last night. He’s afraid he might have put me under there alive. Backing away, he stares at my face.
I wonder what he sees. I haven’t seen a mirror. He probably thinks he’s hallucinating, after all the alcohol I’m sure he’s consumed since killing me.
“What’s the matter, honeybunch? Lost your desire for a drink?” I ask, laughing. “Consequences are ugly, aren’t they? Like, really ugly.”
He shakes his head. I can see he can’t believe this is happening. He runs off, and I hear the shower turn on. I chuckle again. I’ve got him. Got him good.
The shower turns off and I wait. I see him search the house for me. I see him let out a breath. He thinks I was just a product of his guilty conscience. But I’m right here. Watching.
I hear my phone ring. My favorite song. He searches for my phone. Grabs it to see who’s calling, then lets it go to voicemail. I see it’s my boss. She’ll be wondering where I am; why I’m late. I’d never miss work without letting her know. She’s a friend, in addition to being my boss. I’d call or text about a sickness, an emergency, right away.
I can see the wheels turning. He’s coming up with an explanation, an excuse. He’ll probably text her, as me. Tell her I had a family emergency. That’ll buy him some time.
Maybe he’ll eventually tell people I decided to stay wherever I am, at my mother’s or my brother’s. Tell people I left him. I see him make up his mind, he’s decided on a story. He grabs a drink, kicks back on the couch, props his feet up on the coffee table.
I sit down next to him. “Think that’ll work?” I ask. I smile with glee as he jumps a foot and looks over at me. I’ve turned my head but can’t seem to turn it back. Feels weird, like it’s falling off my shoulders. That’d be enough to run him out of the house, I think.
Let it fall off and roll across the floor to him. My smiling face looking up.
“I bet she’ll call again today, it’s not like me to miss work, you know. I’d least call her and let know why I’m not there. She’s definitely going to call again. Be ready with explanation,” I smile at him.
He doesn’t speak, just stares at me.
I leave, but I watch him. I see my phone ring again, a few hours later. I can tell he’s weighing his options, then he texts her. Over his shoulder, I watch him type. I’ve texted him enough over the years, he should be able to mimic my voice.
I’m so sorry! My mother fell this morning and she’s hurt. My brother called me early and woke me up, and I booked a flight and took off. I’ve been in the air, in cars, in with doctors, and just completely forgot to get in touch with you. I don’t know how long I’ll be here, but I’ll update you as soon as I know.
Well, he’s long-winded, but it covers everything. Should get him off the hook for a while.
Oh, no! I hope she’s okay! Please, don’t even worry about it. Let me know when you know something.
He’s patting himself on the back for a job well done. He has another drink to celebrate. Wonder how much time that’s bought him?
I hear him leave, probably going to the grocery store. Where else is he going to go? Work. Ha! The state he’s in, if he showed up at work, they’d fire his ass immediately. But that would suit me.
When he gets back home, I watch him unpack the grocery bags. As he turns to place the whiskey bottles on the counter, I catch him off guard. “This is how you live when I’m not around? You didn’t even buy a vegetable. Not one piece of fruit.”
I laugh as he starts and nearly drops the booze.
“I don’t know how single men survive without contracting scurvy,” I say. I do wonder. Are all the single men out there completely deficient in vitamins?
I can tell I’ve gotten to him this time, but he’s staring at me again in that odd way. I’m sure I look a fright. But still, he refuses to talk to me. He leaves the kitchen. Without a drink, though; maybe I’ll scare him straight as they used to say in middle school.
Days pass. One Monday becomes the next Monday. I hover in the periphery, just observing, mostly. I see his boss has just called.
Seeing his face after he checks his voicemail, I assume the news isn’t good. How long has it been since he’s been to work? How long have I been dead?
“You hated that job anyway,” I tell him.
He’s getting used to me now; he doesn’t jump. He just ignores me.
“Didn’t I put you under the goddamn deck?” he asks me. I’m getting to him.
“He speaks,” I say, surprised. “Yeah, I do believe you put me under the deck. With the rats. Yes, we have rats, I had no idea. Did you? I believe they’re eating my shoulder right now.”
I can see him shiver, disgusted. “Go away!”
“Hmmm, no. I don’t think so. This is too much fun.” I tell him. And it’s true. What else have I got to do?
He slams past me into the kitchen—if he could knock me down, I think he might’ve. He grabs another drink. There are empty bottles everywhere. He’s been buying booze from a delivery service. That can’t be cheap.
“How much did that bottle cost you, with delivery fees and tip?” I ask. I try to turn my head, but I can’t. Feels like it’s stuck.
“None of your goddamned business,” he tells me.
“Too bad you can’t cash in my life insurance policy,” I say, laughing.
“It’s a lot of money, but I guess that’d be a tricky explanation.”
The look on his face tells me he’s forgotten about my life insurance policy. Hilarious. Can’t cash it in without a dead body, and I bet he’s not willing to offer that up.
I’ve noticed he never even sets his alarm anymore. This morning, I decide to surprise him.
He wakes up and rolls over onto his side, face to face with me. His eyes open wide and he screams. “JESUS!”
“Morning, Sunshine!” I say in my brightest voice.
I’m never seen him move so fast—well, aside from that night he killed me.
He vaults out of bed and runs into the bathroom. I can hear him throwing up in there.
He comes back out and heads straight to the kitchen and pours another drink. Another day. Another drink.
He’s emptied the bottle. I see him look around for another one.
“You can’t even remember how many drinks you’ve had,” I tell him, “let alone how many bottles you bought. What’s the matter, can’t you order more online?”
Honestly, I’m not sure he can. When he looks at me, it seems like he’s looking into the distance. Maybe his vision is blurry.
“That’s hilarious. I told you you were an alcoholic. Always just one more drink. And now look at you,” she laugh.
As I laugh, though, his eyes seem to focus. He looks mad as hell. As mad as he was the night he strangled me.
I’m standing near the glass doors that lead onto the deck. Is he about to do what I think he is? Oh, how perfect. I move so my body is right in front of the glass. He rushes at me. Has he forgotten I’m already dead and underneath the deck? I believe he has. So delicious!
He’s moving fast, but I’m not really here. I think he realizes this, too late. He can’t stop. He plows right through where I was standing, right through the glass doors, right off the deck.
Outside, I look over the deck. Looks like his head hit the ground first, leaving his neck at an odd angle. Doesn’t look natural.
Hickory-Smoked Brisket
Instructions
- Place 3 to 4 pound beef brisket on large piece of aluminum foil. Sprinkle generously with 1/4 cup of liquid smoke and 1/2 teaspoon each celery salt, onion salt and garlic salt. Wrap well and put into slow cooker.
- Cover and cook on LOW for 8 to 12 hours or on HIGH for 4 to 6 hours.
- Serve warm with juices over each slice.
- Or, refrigerate overnight and then slice thinly. Place in slow cooker and pour 1 1/2 cups barbecue sauce over meat.
- Cook for 2 to 3 hours on HIGH.
With the shutdown of USAid, the propaganda machine grinds to a halt
I burst out laughing so hard I dropped the phone.
This is a rare moment of inadvertent candor from Bethany. What the chinese call 慾盖弥彰.
What if China, the EU, Canada etc.. start selling US Treasury Bonds due to Trump’s tariff war?
China’s holdings of US TBs are for investments, a significant part of its foreign reserves.
At the height about 3 years ago, they were worth $1.3 trillion. It had since been consistent seller. As of November 2024, the holdings were worth $768 billion. It ranked second after Japan’s $1.1 trillion.
China has been diversifying its investments and foreign reserves. Notables are gold and investments in BRI.
These decisions are not due to Trump’s tariff war.
One big factor was Biden’s freeze of money that belonged to Russia. This triggered the acceleration of dedollarisation. China is not the only country to sell down its TBs.
UK ranked third with holdings of $765 billion. EU countries are also significant holders.
I doubt it will retaliate Trump’s tariffs by selling their holdings of TBs. This would be a foolish decision. The holdings are unrelated to the tariffs, and retaliation by selling them would incur self-harms.
Trump & Elon Defund ANOTHER CIA Front Group -The NED!
The Trump administration has frozen funding to the National Endowment for Democracy (NED), a US-funded organization that meddles in elections and pushes regime change around the world in the name of “promoting democracy.” An order from Elon Musk’s Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE) to the US Treasury Department has reportedly blocked the disbursement of funds to the NED, effectively crippling the organization’s activities.
Jimmy and Americans’ Comedian Kurt Metzger discuss the various iniquities perpetrated by the NED and express their pleasure at its demise.