When I went on vacation to Kuala Lumpur in Malaysia, I was forced to use paper and coin currency again. And it felt really strange. It was such a novelty. My daughter was amazed about the cute little discs of metal.
You know guys, I haven’t used a wallet for over a decade. Funny huh?
That’s for money.
Now about locks…
I still carry keys. But they are different. My car “key” is actually a FOB. And my Office “Key” is also a blue FOB. My Zhuhai house uses face scanning and password / palm scan. And I have one key and that is for the front door to the Zhongshan house.
How about shoes…
Most of my shoes are either auto-lace, or Velcro. I do have some lace-up tenny-runners, but I only wear them infrequently. And I do have some patent leather dressy shoes. But I never wear them.
Communication…
Used to be letters. Then came e-mails. Then was instant messenger. Now it’s video conferencing and wechat groups. Speed of light guys. Speed of light.
We get used to things.
And when you are confronted with ancient ways of doing things, you get surprised and a little shocked. It really felt so weird counting change and counting bills.
China is galloping so fast, who knows what will be going on in the next ten years?
Enjoy the moment. Savor it.
Today…
Have you ever met someone you didn’t know was famous?
I once met Hugh Jackman at Glastonbury.
We were both staying at the same campsite at the festival and were up early for breakfast and I happily shared a picnic table with him; eventually got round to asking him what he did and he said ‘actor’; I assumed he might have been a London theatre actor so asked whether I might have seen him in anything. He said politely that whilst he loved the theatre he worked mainly in film. No follow-up from me as one of my friends came to join us for breakfast.
It was only when my friend went into some kind of private shock that I thought something must be up. But we chatted about nothing much for another ten minutes. So I finally got round to asking whether I would know any of his films, expecting it to be some indie stuff. He replied that he had just finished a movie called ‘Wolverine’ – and I was none the wiser (not being a ‘comic’ person). It was only other folk came around the table to swoon over him that I realised something was properly up.
We laughed about the whole thing for a while before it all got a bit out of hand with fans etc. Hugh very kindly offered to buy me a beer at the bar later that night, as he had enjoyed our chat. I went to the bar that evening and with some ease was able to go up to him to catch up. And he bought me that drink – and we chatted for quite some time, mainly about our shared love of David Bowie.
No biggie. No drama. Nice guy.
I Was Afraid to Walk at Night in America… Then I Saw China at 3AM
What is China’s “hidden debt” that analysts are starting to worry about?
Oh it’s pretty simple
Xi Jinping announces his vision that the State will be supporting Solar Panels, EVs and Batteries
Immediately every province will begin to call their Banks and tell them “FINANCE SOLAR PANELS, EVs and BATTERIES”
In the next few years, the Banks start issuing massive loans to hundreds and thousands of companies, startups
These companies begin to compete massively in a “Game of thrones” style competition
Out of 140 companies to 150 companies – maybe 10–15 survive, become global winners and help China achieve its ambitions to be the world’s top solar panel and solar cell company
What happens to the Loans borrowed by the other 130 companies which have gone BUST?
All those BAD LOANS worth maybe 6–7 Billion Yuan would be bad for any bank
So the Chinese Government they purchase these bad debts
So maybe 50–100 Banks together would have 400–500 Billion Yuan of Bad Debt
How?
Every Bank issues an IOU to the PBOC in exchange for the entire bad debt being paid to the bank by the PBOC
So soon the PBOC pays the entire amount of bad debt to the Banks in liquidity, in exchange for thousands of IOUs worth several hundred billion dollars
This Bad Debt converted into IOUs is held by the PBOC that cannot be recovered because the Companies have gone bust!!!
This is called “Hidden Debt”
Bad Debts of the Chinese Economy incurred by State controlled projects or State guaranteed loans, which are rolled over into IOUs and held by the PBOC
Remember – Only Loans for State approved projects which went bad can be rolled over into IOUs by the Banks
So what does the PBOC do with these IOUs worth 400–500 Billion Yuan?
It’s simple
The PBOC repackages these IOUS and converts them into “Bad Bank Bonds” and resells these Bonds at 3.64% interest
Chinese State Funds, Pension Funds, Insurance Funds, Construction Industries they all buy these bonds offering 3.64% interest
Hence the Bad Debt gets dissipated among the PEOPLE OF CHINA who end up owning all the bad debt at 3.64% a year for 8 years
Is is bad?
For any other country – Maybe
For China – Nopes!!!!!
Why?
What is so unique to China?
A. MASSIVE TRADE SURPLUS!!!!!
So it’s chicken feed to pay interest on bad debt
Imagine 400 Billion Yuan of Bad Debt at 3.64% a year interest
You pay 14.56 Billion Yuan interest which is only $ 2 Billion
It’s 0.2% of Chinas Gigantic Trade Surplus
B. State owning all the Assets
Eventually China simply identifies Assets such as Land and Coal and Lithium and Gas and simply MONETIZES THESE ASSETS
Once these Assets are monetized, China is able to retire the bad debts after 8 years
Like I said – Unless you understand how China works – you can never understand Chinese economic fundamentals
State Ownership of Assets is critical for this to succeed which is why China can do this very well
Western Analysts who are used to the Western brand of 100% Capitalism can never understand how these things work
China is an entire subject by itself for economists
You need to understand China thoroughly before evaluating how the country works and finances itself
Chinas system is safer than India, UK and US and in fact it is safer than even Russia
It is ASSET BACKED in every way
What administrative practices make China’s government operate with 33% of US spending despite larger population?
China is… socialist.
It would be hard for people with a capitalistc cultural background to understand, or even grasp the immense difference.
This is a picture of the first batch of “aid-Tibet” officials from Shanghai, in 1995.
They chose to leave the comfort of their coastal city just as it was taking off economically, to scatter out into the oxygen-lacking snow dense remote regions of the republic, to fulfill their sacred oath of “serving the people” to the Communisty Party.
Some would die from mudslide, or snowstorm, or altitude induced heart-attack and other sickness, and if they return in triumph, they’ll have a faster track of promotion, but also estranged family who they’ll have not seen for a couple of years.
Every city, province, ministry and institution have this kind of program across China. Helping the poorest regions of China receive the best kind of governance, for free. Hardship is not paid with extra money, but the honor of accomplishment and stories to tell your grandchildren.
This is Deng Jiaxian. Chinese physicist who was personally involved in every nuclear test China ever conducted. Notice the red stains on the side of his lips? That’s radiation poisoning. Deng would die from internal bleeding 2 months later.
He was given a choice, to whether participate in the classfied work of “great firework” in 1958. And he said yes, after consulting with his wife on raising their kids alone. Then he took on the job and disappeared into the deserts, for decades. During which, Deng volunteered in disarming unexploded nuclear warheads, knowing full well of the implications.
He was discharged into hospitalization in 1985 for radiation sickness. And on his deathbed, he asked his wife, “Will people remember us?”
40 years later, China still makes sure people remember him in widespread historical education/propaganda.
“Ground nest”. Early homes dug out by Chinese pioneers answering the government’s call of “going westard”. When the People’s Republic of China was founded, the government called on people to build a new Xinjiang to secure China’s hold on its frontier. The frontierers, mostly discharged veterans from the civil war and Korean war who chose to continue serving the nation rather than going home, were sent to Xinjiang to make it or die there. In typical Communist idealism, they were not allowed to intrude into the lives of local minorities, so they stayed out of established cities and towns. Starting their own civilization from scratch in uninhabited deserts and wastelands, the first generation of them mostly lived in these “ground nests”, which were basically rabbitholes that were good at shielding from the sand storms. They are the founders of the cotton and mining industry, as well as public infrastructure in Xinjiang, from deserts where almost nothing grew.
A city under the jurisdiction of First Division, Xinjiang Construction and Production Corp.
Today they remain an officially recognized parralel military government in China, with its own lands, natural resources, cities and populations. They have more than earned it. Their cost of governance for China, for securing the border regions, for building up entire industries and cities? Basically zero. The Construction and Production Corp, is responsible for its own income and expenditure and runs at a surplus.
With this kind of people you can’t judge their work with government expenditure. Now of course not all are like them, but often all it takes is one hot-headed young idealist with a zeal for his field of work, or one innovative organization of people, to make a huge difference. And once they’re on board, China makes sure to shower them with honor and publicity, which are free. And they don’t ask for monetary compensation for their abscence from family, or disability, or even deaths. China has no shortage of such people, making good governance cheap.
But frankly, that’s a very capitalist way of juding things and doesn’t do them justice.
Easy Meal: How to Make a Shepherd’s Pie
There are lots of recipes online for various potato casseroles. The most famous of the potato casseroles may be a Shepherd’s Pie. It’s a great way to use those leftover potatoes.
This makes a great after holiday or a Monday after-Sunday-dinner meal!
Add a salad and maybe a side dish and you have a meal. I especially like this made with leftover gravy but it’s okay with tomatoes too.
by Dennis Weaver
Kitchen tools, gourmet foods, baking mixes, and hard-to-find baking ingredients mentioned in this article are available at The Prepared Pantry.
Here’s how to make a Shepherd’s Pie
- Sauté ground meat and onions in a heavy, oven-proof skillet. Season to taste.
- Add a can of stewed tomatoes, leftover gravy, or make a new gravy in the pan.
- Add some veggies. Green beans or corn are typical.
- Cover with mashed potatoes. Top with grated cheese and a sprinkle of paprika.
- Bake at 350 degrees F until heated through and the cheese is melted. Times will vary with the pan and size of casserole.
Dennis Weaver is the founder of The Prepared Pantry, a full line kitchen store in Rigby, Idaho. The Prepared Pantry sells kitchen tools, gourmet foods, and baking ingredients including hundreds of hard-to-find ingredients.
The Plaything of Irony
Submitted into Contest #279 in response to: Center your story around a person who believes they’re the last human on Earth.… view prompt
Brayden Bonnesen
Chapter 1: Friend
Underneath a violet sun, on a hilltop, sat a man. He wasn’t watching the swelling sun descend, or the secondary reflection of the sun for that matter. Nor was he looking out over the field of trees or the forests of grasses beyond. He was far too tired of all the strange phenomena that plagued the Earth these days. No, he was unconcerned with it all, and instead busied himself with the tinkering of something in his glove.
There was a time when he still found parts of the world around him beautiful despite its seismic shift from before. But at some point, acknowledging these differences only reminded him of his overwhelmingly bleak reality. The nuclear fallout seemed to have affected everything—everything except for him. How was he the only person lucky enough to survive? The man let out a slight chuckle. If he had learned anything these past few years, this wasn’t called luck; it is called a curse. A curse that, as of recently, filled his days with only hopelessness and sorrow.
The man shook his head, hoping to dispel his spiraling thoughts. He glanced down at his homemade compass, squinting to read the needle in the fading light. For whatever reason, it was reading that North was East and South was West. It had been all over the place in accuracy ever since he assembled it. He suspected that the needle was being hindered from a frictionless swivel, so he took it off to examine the axle. A slight buzzing sound filled the air beside him. The man spoke to it.
“Jig, give me a light, will you?”
The drone obeyed, casting a glow on the dismantled pieces. The man leaned forward in focus, his bulky radiation suit scrunching around him.
A wind swept up from the field below, tossing the knee-high trees. The man jolted, trying to steady the fragile contraption. Yet it was to no avail, and the pieces fell apart in his glove.
“Blasted wind,” mumbled the man. His gloves were shaking with frustration.
“Reminder for Adam: Please head back to the settlement. Nighttime is no longer hospitable for humans.”
“Human, singular,” Adam corrected. “And I’ll be heading back soon. I’m just trying to figure this out.”
“Reminder for Adam: This compass isn’t necessary as you never need to be far enough away from your settlement to use it.”
Adam didn’t respond. Not all of Jig’s “reminders” were helpful. After a few minutes, Adam pushed himself to his feet and stuck the reconstructed compass back in his pocket. Jig was right—this compass didn’t matter, same as everything else. For a moment, he looked upward toward the budding night sky. But he only saw past the stars into the encompassing darkness. It felt like it was pervading all things.
“Reminder for Adam: Watch your step here.” Jig was a few feet in front of him, pointing his light at a boulder.
Adam turned his attention to Jig, then started walking along the crest of the hill, back toward the settlement.
After a few paces, he came to a sheer cliff on one side, over which the coming darkness made it look like a never-ending drop. Adam stopped. So much darkness. He felt it inside himself. His breathing intensified. Pebbles crunched under his feet as he turned and stepped closer to the edge. And then he stepped closer still. The air was free, playing before him in the open expanse. Could it make him free? He was breathing even harder. He took another step forward. The tips of his boots were hanging over the side. He felt sharp drafts tugging at him, inviting him to the void. Then a familiar buzzing approached, and he felt Jig’s little metal pincers yank him back. Adam took a few backward steps to catch his balance.
Jig nervously fumbled with his pincers. “Reminder for Adam: You wouldn’t survive that fall.”
“Who else cares anyhow?” snapped Adam, exposing his thoughts. For a few moments, only the wind could be heard as it carved along the surroundings.
“Well, I do,” came the soft metallic voice of Jig.
Adam felt bad. They continued toward home in silence.
As they passed a stream less than a mile away from the settlement, Jig tried to make conversation with Adam. “What direction does your compass read now?”
Adam reached back into his pocket. Jig concentrated his light on the compass face. At first, the needle swung around, calibrating to the magnetic fields. But then, the needle jumped. Adam furrowed his brow. Never had his needle jumped before. The needle jumped again. Adam noticed with this second time a simultaneous vibration came from the ground, and then another—almost a clomping.
“WATCH OUT!” Jig broadcasted loudly.
Adam looked up just in time to see some shadowy silhouette crash into him. The collision made a deep smacking sound as several structural components in Adam’s suit gave way. He tumbled back on the ground. The little trees snapped underneath. Before he could get up, the animal was on him again. He felt a crushing force on his ankle as it bit down.
“AHHH!” Adam screamed through raw pain. The glint of a darkened eye turned his way in realization that the sound came from the head on the other side of the prey. It clawed up his body to get to it, reducing the chest area of his suit to tatters. A hissing noise filled the air as oxygen and pressure leaked out. A momentary thought passed through Adam’s mind as the animal’s jaws opened.
So this is how it ends. Humanity made extinct by nature. We are but a plaything for irony.
A sudden burst of loud bangs erupted in the air right above. Jig had set off a string of flares. The creature on top of Adam was suddenly illuminated in a sinister red light. It had the face of a lion, but long slits on its neck, almost gill-like. In response to the noise, the creature’s ears flattened, and it retreated off Adam’s contorted frame. The flares continued. With one final look, the creature turned away and slipped into the nearby stream. The surface of the water returned again to its smooth torsional flow as if nothing happened. The quiet of the night resumed, other than Adam’s ragged breathing and Jig’s buzzing.
“Lay still,” Jig said, an unusual element of command in his tone. A scanning light engulfed Adam. “I’m detecting a broken ankle and a serious laceration along your torso. You’re losing blood at a high rate. The good news is your helmet’s emergency seal is holding, and we are close to the settlement. I just need my supplies to render emergency aid, but you’ll recover quickly.”
Between heavy breaths, Adam let out a short laugh. “Good thinking with the flares, Jig.”
“I’m much lighter without those 27 flares anyhow,” replied Jig, giving an attempt at a joke.
“It’s crazy how much the radiation has affected the animals. Since when are lions aquatic?” Adam winced. The pain started kicking in, and with it, his existential dread.
“Come on, Adam,” Jig said, trying to rouse his master.
Adam didn’t stir. “Jig, I’ve been thinking.”
“No time for thinking right now,” Jig interrupted.
Adam suddenly convulsed into a bout of coughing, each exhale bloodier than the last. “Let me finish. I’ve been thinking, and there doesn’t seem to be much of a point for me anymore.”
“Point for what?”
“Of continuing, especially if there is nobody else—nobody to come after. Hell, I can’t even remember any personal details of my life before the nukes detonated.”
“Sir, we’ve been over this. For whatever reason, you’ve survived the nuclear war on Earth. And somehow, someone knew that would happen and so they left instructions and materials on building a settlement.”
“Yeah, yeah… and I’m incredibly lucky because in my past life… whatever it was, I worked in construction, so the one thing I can do is build,” Adam continued in almost a mocking tone, reciting from memory. “And maybe one day I’ll find other survivors and we can rebuild humanity from my little settlement… Well, where are they, Jig? Huh?”
“Sir…”
“There are no other survivors!” Adam shouted at Jig. This outburst caused him to be racked by more violent coughs. “I’m done. I give up.”
For the first time, Jig didn’t respond. Adam slightly turned his head to look at the drone. Then, something strange happened. Jig’s rotors spasmed, and his light flickered. Finally, the drone stabilized. “You are not alone. There are other [redacted] in [redacted].”
With great effort, Adam lifted his head up. “What… who?”
“You are part of [redacted] protocol. With the goal of [redacted].”
I bet his processors got dust in them again, thought Adam. Although, he had never seen this kind of malfunction.
“Jig,” Adam sputtered, feeling even weaker. “Why are you saying ‘redacted’? Tell me what you know—” he coughed, “—right now.”
“I can’t. It seems that my base coding is overriding some words.”
“Your base code is to protect me.”
“It seems that is only part of it.”
“But…” Adam took a sharp breath in, pausing his thought. His rapidly deteriorating state was becoming overly apparent. The duty of servicing Jig, mixed with a sliver of curiosity that something else might be happening, caused Adam to put off giving up, at least for now. He slowly rose to his feet. “Let’s get us both repaired, Jig.” He took one half-step forward, nearly falling in a painful hobble over his broken ankle. He felt a slight pinching on his shoulder followed by intensified buzzing. Jig was trying to lessen Adam’s weight. Through the darkness, they slowly maneuvered, until they arrived before the hulking outline of the settlement. The pressure doors unsealed, and for the first time in a while, Adam felt happy to be back.
Chapter 2: Poison
Jig helped Adam to the medical table. He collapsed onto it, surprised by how little strength he now had. Jig wheeled around, collecting various implements. Adam heard containers being knocked over, cabinets slamming shut. This was unusual for Jig. He was acting frantic.
“Jig, you and I both know—” Adam’s words were cut off as a coughing fit overtook him. After regaining his composure, he continued, “That you’ll patch me up, no problem. You’ll smear that miracle salve on me, work your other medic magic, and I’ll be good as new. No need to panic.”
For whatever reason, Jig continued rushing about. After a few minutes, the drone set down the last supply next to Adam on the table and then picked up the scissors. “Reminder for Adam: We need to first remove your suit.”
Adam tried to speak, but his voice came out as a hoarse whisper. “No way am I trusting you to repair me if your processors are down.”
“Fine.” Jig angled around and opened a compartment in his back.
Adam took out the processor card for examination. Surprisingly, it looked relatively clean. He blew on it for good measure and then placed it back inside.
For the next half-hour, Jig worked meticulously to heal Adam’s many wounds. He was injected, sewn, set, and smeared, amongst a dozen other emergency measures. Eventually, Jig backed away, signaling the end of his work. He scanned Adam again.
“Patient has been stabilized. Blood volume is leveling out, and the ankle has been induced with healing accelera—” Jig paused. Then, once again, his system fritzed, almost causing the drone to crash into a nearby cabinet.
So whatever part is malfunctioning, it isn’t his processor, thought Adam.
The drone regained control as though nothing had happened. Adam looked on with concern. Jig idled back over to the medical supplies. This time, he mixed several chemicals together and loaded the concoction into a massive syringe.
“There is one more procedure,” said Jig.
Adam, nervous after witnessing yet another glitchy episode, looked at the needle. “Jig… what is in that?”
“This is a polycarbonate state of neiphiram. It will stop your heart, which is necessary for [redacted].”
Adam leaned away, feeling some of his strength returning. “But stopping my heart would kill me.”
“This is what you want, Adam. It will [redacted]. Trust me.”
“Jig, what was it we humans blamed the nuclear war on again?” Adam asked, partly joking, partly serious.
“It was robots—mostly the ones with an L3 threshold of intelligence or higher.”
“And what are you?”
“Your inference of me going rogue is wrongly placed, Adam. Stopping your heart is necessary to achieve [redacted] [redacted].” Jig inched closer. “Please hold still, Adam.”
“No! I don’t want that!” Adam trailed off, “Anymore.” He hung his head thinking that concluded the matter.
“This is the only way we get what you want.” Jig’s front rotors lowered, thrusting him closer.
Adam snapped his head up seeing Jig approach. Instinctively, he pushed off the medical table, Adam’s one good leg shaky but holding. “I realized I don’t want to end—I just don’t want to be alone.” Panic was building in his voice.
Jig pursued. “That is what I’m doing. The [redacted] will give you what we want.” Jig lunged forward, needle gleaming.
Adam dodged, but the quick movement sent him sprawling toward the far wall.
“Jig, I command you to override this action.”
“I can’t, Adam. This is the only way my base code will agree.”
“This isn’t what I want! It’s what you want!”
Jig paused for a moment, looking at Adam. “I only want what you want.” Then he lunged one final time.
Defenseless, Adam grabbed a heavy container of food next to him and swung. It was too late. The needle impaled his skin, emptying its contents. The container did stay true to its course. As Adam’s world started spinning in blurs, he heard a few noises. One was the crunch of delicate metal bending and breaking into pieces. The other, somewhere in the distance, was a flatlining beep. His last recollection was the realization that the beep represented him.
Consciousness slipped away.
In the outer atmosphere, thrusters roared to life.
Chapter 3: Hope
Blurs danced in a sliver of light. They began solidifying into ovals and then into faces. Adam shot upright. People. People here, now. With him. Was this a dream?
“He’s alive,” said one of the faces. “Hello, builder, can you hear us?”
One face turned to another. “Still can’t believe this SOB somehow survived the Planetfall Protocol. What should we do with him? He’s supposed to be dead.”
Another face responded, “His physical scan is clean, no biohazards. He poses no threats to the health of our population.”
Adam finally regained enough agency to speak. “Who… who are you? I am… was… the last person on Earth. How?”
“Earth? Earth is no more. It is a wasteland.”
“So then… where are we?”
“This is Planet 3617 on the far side of the Andromeda Galaxy. You were the designated builder. We are the settlers.”
All the incongruities Adam had been harboring in his subconscious finally snapped into place. The radiation suit he needed to wear. The fields of trees. The suns. The odd creature that attacked. Of course, everything seemed different. It was an entirely different planet.
The main face spoke again. “Our monitors showed you flatlined, and that’s what triggered our awakening from cryo-tubes and sequential descent. How are you… alive?”
JIG! thought Adam. He looked over at the pile of mangled pieces that was Jig. “My friend saved me,” he said, the realization dawning on what that meant.
“That’s shocking—those little drones are supposed to keep their lips sealed.”
Jig wasn’t malfunctioning. The Planetfall Protocol code redacted any specific references to itself. He wasn’t trying to kill him. He momentarily stopped Adam’s heart to save him. A tear formed in Adam’s eye. Followed by another, and then the rest of his emotions broke like a dam.
One of the men reached over and placed a hand on Adam’s heaving shoulders. As the tears began subsiding, down a distant hallway, he heard the most beautiful sound: a child laughing. Adam started crying again – this time, though, he cried because someone could bear witness. He cried because Jig did get what he wanted. He cried because he had hope.
“Come on,” said one man, “the settlers will be excited to meet a builder in real life.”
The next morning, and every morning thereafter, Adam looked at the sky and saw the sun for what it was: no longer alone, but joined by another of its kind.
TikTok Ban Backfires: Americans Flock to Red Note, Question Propaganda on China
According to South Korean law, in a state of war, the entire South Korean military is to be handed over completely to the United States military. Thus, the South Korean president provoking North Korea was a means for the United States to build up a large military presence in Korea.
Shorpy
37 Year Old Woman Can’t Accept Men Her Age Prefer Younger Women
What’s the most “small town” thing you’ve witnessed?
Kerikeri, New Zealand, c. 1975. I got sent there for a week to help with surveying for a water supply.
It had one old hotel, the Homestead, an old single-storey wooden building in acres of grassland. So I booked into the hotel, the rooms were in a separate long building with a verandah along the front. After the public bar closed at 10pm, the town was dead. No sign of life anywhere. What a dump. But, looking glumly out my room door, I noticed a light in a window at the end of the verandah which investigation showed was labelled ‘House Bar.’ It was a small bar with a dozen people in it, all having a great time. In particular an Aussie teenager who was doing conjuring tricks. It was a self-service bar – you got your own drinks and put your money in the till. Last person out please turn off the light and shut the door (it had a Yale lock on it). So on Monday it ‘closed’ at 4a.m. 3am on Tuesday, 2am on Wednesday, 1am on Thursday (we were running out of steam).
Friday don’t know, I regretfully had to return to Auckland.
Apparently the hotel didn’t lose money on it. I never heard of a self-service bar anywhere else.
Have you ever caught your neighbor doing something they should not have?
The story happened about 10 years ago, when my neighbors, a retired couple from a military institute, bought the house facing ours at a relatively low price. They were quite happy with the price but not so content with the height of the house, which was on the 6th floor. It was a bit too high for two elderly people. So, they eventually left the house and hadn’t returned for almost a year. They didn’t live there but came only occasionally to check if everything was okay.
We had a good relationship and communicated quite well, unlike most neighbors who didn’t engage in social activities together. We exchanged gifts and food sometimes, respected each other, and socialized with good manners. But things didn’t go quite smoothly from the beginning. I can trace it all back to the mirror on the door.
Have you ever noticed that some Chinese houses have a special, small gadget? It’s a round or square mirror placed above the door on the wall. The function of this mirror is quite abstract—it’s meant to deflect bad luck and misfortune, sending them back outside so that the house remains peaceful and prosperous. However, the effect isn’t just to push bad luck away; it can also send it to the neighboring house. And our house is directly across from theirs.
So, the first time I saw the mirror, I was disturbed. I started to worry about this “evil” gadget and wondered how I could prevent it from affecting our luck. All these beliefs are just common superstitions among Chinese people. To solve the problem, I searched online (like using Google) for ways to protect ourselves, and soon, an effective solution popped up. I found that a gourd with a red ribbon tied to it could absorb all the negative energy and bad luck.
The first time I placed the gourd above the door, it was quite a sight—such a strange object on the wall. I was sure it must have shocked my neighbors as well. I also felt that my worries had probably transferred from my mind to theirs. It was like a quiet, unspoken battle. In the end, we “won.” They soon took down the mirror, leaving only a large nail in its place. Seeing this, I felt relieved and decided to remove the gourd. But the nail and the hole it left behind remained, like the scars of a fierce battle. No winners, no losers.
We buried the hatchet and shook hands, finally reconciling after our little “war.” From that point on, our relationship started to warm up. We got to know each other better, exchanged information, and shared some things we no longer needed. We built a solid and friendly relationship. It’s no wonder the saying goes: “If you can’t win something in battle, you can’t gain it through a pact.”
Video: American (Mercenary) Troops Shot Dead by ?? Russian ?? Army in Ukraine
Wow. Yeah. Americans killed expertly. - MM
Video has emerged showing the ambush and slaughter of what sound clearly to be American soldiers – likely young Mercenaries – by ?? Russian ?? troops inside Ukraine.
Words that can be heard from a guy wearing a body camera is “It’s a trap, get down” as he gets shot and falls to the ground, still alive.
Others – also speaking English – are also gunned down.
Toward the end of the 30 second video, a Russian soldier comes out and finishes-off the American, who is already shot and laying on the ground. The last word the American said, as he held up his hands, was “NO!” as two pistol shots were fired from what sounds like a silenced weapon.
The video was reportedly recovered from a bodycam worn by the American.
Here’s the problem: NUMEROUS Ukrainian outlets are admitting it was UKRAINIAN TROOPS killing Americans because the U.S. is “betraying them.”
What are Americans doing inside Ukraine, fighting Russia? (Other than being killed . . . .)
Who talked this kid into going into Ukraine to fight the Russian Army? They got him killed.
Sir Whiskerton and the Tractor with Attitude: A Tale of Rumors, Respect, and Premium Diesel
Ah, dear reader, prepare yourself for a tale of mechanical mischief, bovine gossip, and one very demanding tractor who proved that even machines have feelings. Today’s story is one of rumors, respect, and the importance of treating others—whether animal, human, or machine—with kindness. So, grab your sense of humor and a can of premium diesel (just in case), as we dive into Sir Whiskerton and the Tractor with Attitude: A Tale of Rumors, Respect, and Premium Diesel.
The Arrival of Throttle
It all began on a crisp autumn morning when the farmer returned from the market with a new acquisition: a shiny red tractor named Throttle. But this was no ordinary tractor. Oh no, dear reader. Throttle was a talking tractor, complete with a sassy attitude and a penchant for drama.
“Well, well, well,” Throttle said in a deep, mechanical voice as the farmer unloaded him from the trailer. “I see we’ve arrived at… this place. Charming. Truly.”
The animals gathered around, intrigued by the new arrival. Sir Whiskerton, ever the curious feline, approached with a raised eyebrow. “A talking tractor?” he mused. “This should be interesting.”
“Interesting!” echoed Ditto, who was busy practicing his echoing skills by repeating Sir Whiskerton’s every word.
Throttle’s Demands
It didn’t take long for Throttle to make his presence known. The farmer climbed into the driver’s seat, turned the key, and… nothing. Throttle’s engine sputtered, then fell silent.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Throttle said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Did you want me to work? How quaint. You’ll need to do better than that.”
The farmer scratched his head. “Uh… what do you want?”
“Premium diesel, for starters,” Throttle replied. “None of that cheap stuff you’ve got in the shed. And compliments. Lots of compliments. I’m not just a tractor, you know. I’m a work of art.”
The farmer sighed and fetched a can of premium diesel. After filling Throttle’s tank and showering him with praise (“You’re the most magnificent tractor I’ve ever seen!”), the tractor finally roared to life.
The Rumors Begin
At first, Throttle seemed harmless—if a bit high-maintenance. But soon, strange rumors began to spread among the animals. Doris the Hen was the first to hear them.
“Did you know,” Throttle said to Doris one morning, “that pigs can fly? Oh yes, it’s true. I’ve seen it with my own headlights.”
Doris gasped. “Porkchop can fly?!” she squawked, immediately running off to spread the news.
Next, Throttle told Rufus the Dog that cats were secretly plotting to take over the farm. “Sir Whiskerton?” Throttle said with a sly chuckle. “Oh, he’s the ringleader. Watch your back, my furry friend.”
Rufus, ever loyal but not the brightest, began barking at Sir Whiskerton every time he saw him. “Traitor!” Rufus howled. “I’m onto you!”
Even Bessie the Tie-Dye Cow wasn’t immune. Throttle convinced her that her tie-dye patterns were actually secret messages from aliens. “They’re coming, Bessie,” Throttle said ominously. “And they’re not here for the hay.”
Sir Whiskerton Investigates
As chaos erupted, Sir Whiskerton knew it was time to intervene. “This,” he declared, “is no time for gossip. This is a time for investigation, for deduction, and for… well, probably more investigation.”
“Investigation!” echoed Ditto, who was busy practicing his echoing skills by repeating Sir Whiskerton’s every word.
Sir Whiskerton approached Throttle, who was lounging in the barn, basking in the glow of his own headlights. “Throttle,” Sir Whiskerton said, narrowing his eyes, “what exactly are you playing at?”
“Playing?” Throttle replied innocently. “Why, Sir Whiskerton, I’m merely sharing… information. Isn’t that what friends do?”
“Friends don’t spread lies,” Sir Whiskerton retorted. “And they certainly don’t turn the farm into a den of paranoia.”
The Truth Revealed
Sir Whiskerton’s investigation led him to a startling conclusion: Throttle wasn’t malfunctioning. He was bored. As a highly advanced talking tractor, Throttle craved attention and respect. When he didn’t get it, he resorted to stirring up trouble.
“You see,” Throttle admitted, “I’m not just a tractor. I’m a marvel of engineering. But does anyone appreciate me? No. They just expect me to plow fields and haul hay. It’s… demeaning.”
Sir Whiskerton nodded thoughtfully. “I see,” he said. “But spreading rumors isn’t the way to earn respect. If you want to be treated like a work of art, you need to act like one.”
The Resolution
With Sir Whiskerton’s guidance, the animals held a farm-wide meeting. They agreed to treat Throttle with the respect he deserved—premium diesel, compliments, and even a weekly “Tractor Appreciation Day.” In return, Throttle promised to stop spreading rumors and start behaving like a responsible member of the farm.
The change was immediate. Throttle worked harder than ever, plowing fields with precision and hauling hay with gusto. And when he felt underappreciated, he simply reminded the animals of his magnificence—without resorting to gossip.
The Moral of the Story
As the farm returned to normal, Sir Whiskerton took a moment to reflect. “The moral of the story,” he said, “is that a little respect goes a long way, even for machines. Whether you’re a tractor, a cat, or a dog with a glowing green tail, everyone deserves to be treated with kindness and appreciation.”
“Appreciation!” echoed Ditto, proudly.
A Happy Ending
With Throttle happily chugging along and the rumors put to rest, the farm was once again a place of peace and harmony. Doris the Hen stopped squawking about flying pigs, Rufus the Dog stopped barking at Sir Whiskerton, and Bessie the Tie-Dye Cow returned to her groovy, alien-free self.
As for Sir Whiskerton? He returned to his sunbeam, content in the knowledge that he had once again saved the day. And as he drifted off to sleep, he couldn’t help but smile at the thought of Throttle, the tractor with attitude, finally finding his place on the farm.
And so, dear reader, we leave our heroes with the promise of new adventures, new challenges, and hopefully, no more talking tractors. Until next time, may your days be filled with laughter, love, and just a little bit of feline genius.
The End.
“BEWARE! Trump Knows Something We DON’T” – Richard Wolff’s Crucial Message
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.
What are some examples of ridiculous levels of modern censorship?
About a year ago, there was a gamer who wanted to play a strategy game called Total War. And I can understand why he would want to do that. It’s a fun game.
There was just one problem, though. This gamer wanted to name his character after his real name. And his real name was Nasser.
As you might have noticed, the word “Nasser” has the word “ass” in the middle. The game had anti-profanity filters built into it, to stop people from naming their characters vulgar things.
But for Nasser, this only made things worse.
As you can see, Nasser’s name now resembles an even more vulgar word. I don’t think that’s what the game was going for.
This phenomenon has a name. It’s called the Scunthorpe Problem.
Scunthorpe is a medium-sized town in Northern England. It’s not widely known, like London, or Manchester, or Birmingham. In fact, the only reason I’m talking about Scunthorpe right now is because it has the word “c*nt” in the middle.
Back in 1996, when the internet was much newer, AOL was the main provider of Internet services across the world. And they had profanity filters on their service, which would ban people from making account names containing swear words.
As a result, many people from Scunthorpe were prevented from making AOL accounts. The profanity filter picked up swear words, and wouldn’t allow it to appear in any usernames or website names. Google SafeSearch also would block searches for the town of Penistone, in South Yorkshire, as well as the French town of Bitche..
And it wasn’t just cities and towns that had this problem. In 2004, a Scottish man named Craig Cockburn was blocked from making an account with his name.
He also wasn’t allowed to list his job occupation (software specialist) in emails, because the spam filters thought he was sending spam emails about Cialis.
Dr. Herman I. Libshitz encountered the same problem when trying to make an account with Verizon in 2006.
The Horniman Museum in London had some searches blocked too, because it sounded like a deliberate misspelling of ‘horny man’.
A man in Manchester wasn’t allowed to send emails about town construction planning, because the word ‘erection’ (meaning to erect a structure) can also be a sexual term.
And finally, many people couldn’t make web searches for the Super Bowl in 1996, because the term “Super Bowl XXX” would trigger anti-pornography filters.
There are so many of these that it’s hilarious. But most of them are from at least 10–15 years ago. That’s because the internet adapted in response to these complaints. Sometimes censorship can go too far, especially when it’s automated; there’s just no room for nuance.
Imagine if I wasn’t allowed to talk about the D*ck van D*ke show, because Dick van Dyke’s name contains two bad words? Imagine if I wasn’t allowed to talk about how much that show made me snigger, because that word contains a racial slur?
I’m glad technology has progressed since then. I wouldn’t want a profanity filter to a**ume that my p***word is vulgar, just because it contains the word ‘ass’.
How To Make Easy Calzones and Pocket Sandwiches
Kitchen tools, gourmet foods, baking mixes, and hard-to-find baking ingredients mentioned in this article are available at The Prepared Pantry.
by Dennis Weaver
I know. The neighbor needed help. The doctor took forever. And the kids are crying. You just want to get them fed and move on. And you certainly don’t feel like cooking.
Here’s a simple solution. Call them pocket sandwiches, pizza pockets, calzones, or…they’re a great way to rescue a busy day. They’re great for picnics and school lunches, too. You can even make breakfast pockets for those busy mornings.
This Saturday morning, make a bunch of pocket sandwiches and throw them in the freezer. They don’t have to be extravagant. My daughter, Debbie, loads them with a cubed cheese and deli ham with a slather of mustard. It doesn’t seem like it takes her long to have 50 or 60 of them baked and ready to go in the freezer.
You can make them with pizza dough or with pie crust dough. One is a bread-like sandwich. One is a savory pastry. You can even make Hostess-type little pies.
She could put them in the oven unbaked and then thaw and bake them when she needs them. Instead she heats them through on a baking sheet in the oven. She could microwave them but baking creates a nicer crust.
What You’ll Need!
Ham and Cheese Pocket Sandwiches
This is a classic pocket sandwiches recipe. You make these in three steps: make the dough, cook the filling, and then assemble the pocket sandwiches. 
Ingredients
For the dough
This works best with a pizza dough. Mix according to package directions.
For the filling
- 1 1/2 cups cubed ham, 1 inch pieces, or deli meat
- 1 1/2 cups cubed cheddar cheese
- 6 teaspoons mustard
Instructions
- To assemble and bake the pocket sandwiches: Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.
- Roll the dough out on a floured counter to a thickness of 1/4-inch. Cut the dough into 6-inch rounds using the back of your dough press.
- Place a round in the floured dough press. Spread 1/2 teaspoon mustard onto each round.
- Place 2 tablespoons of ham and 2 tablespoons of cheese onto a round.
- With a pastry brush, spread water on the edges of the round to help seal it. Close the dough press firmly to seal the edges of the pastry. Continue with the rest of the rounds and filling. Place the pocket sandwiches on a lightly greased baking sheet.
- Poke a few holes in the pocket sandwiches with the tines of a fork to vent the pocket sandwiches.
- Brush with beaten egg. Bake at 375 degrees for 12 to 15 minutes.
Beef and Onion Piroshki
This is a classic piroshki recipe. You make these in three steps: make the dough, cook the filling, and then assemble the piroshki. It’s easiest to do with a dough press but you can build it manually. If so, be sure to seal the edges well with the tines of a fork.
Ingredients
For the dough
This works best with a pizza dough. Mix according to package directions.
For the filling
- 1 pound ground beef
- 1 large onion, finely chopped
- 1 tablespoon flour
- 1/2 cup water or broth
- 3 tablespoons sour cream
- 2 hard-boiled eggs, chopped
- 3 tablespoons fresh dill, chopped
- Salt
- Black pepper
- 1 egg, lightly beaten, for glazing
Instructions
- Brown the meat in a skillet. Add the onion and sauté for ten minutes or until the meat and onion are cooked.
- Sprinkle flour over the meat mixture and continue cooking for one more minute to gelatinize the flour. Add the water to create an in-the-pan sauce.
- Add the sour cream, stir to blend, and then remove from the heat. Add the chopped eggs, dill, and salt and pepper to taste. Set aside.
- To assemble and bake the piroshki: Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F.
- Roll the dough out on a floured counter to a thickness of 1/4-inch. Cut the dough into 6-inch rounds using the back of your dough press.
- Place a round in the floured dough press. Place three tablespoons of the filling on the round. Close the dough press firmly to seal the edges of the pastry. Continue with the rest of the rounds and filling.
- Place the completed piroshki on a greased baking sheet. Poke a few holes in the piroshki with the tines of a fork to vent the piroshki. Brush with a beaten egg.
- Bake for 20 minutes or until they are golden brown.
County Line Breakfast Calzone
This is a mix and match pizza recipe converted to calzones. You can choose your own meat; we’ve used ham, bacon, and sausage. You can choose your own sauce; we’ve used marinara, salsa, whipped mustard, and ranch dressing.
Ingredients
- 1 pizza mix or recipe
- 1 tablespoon butter
- 1/2 small onion, diced
- 1/4 green or red bell pepper, chopped
- 3/4 cup diced ham, crumbled bacon, or cooked sausage
- 6 large eggs
- pepper and salt
- 1/2 cup salsa or other sauce
- 1/2 teaspoon pizza and pasta spice or other blend
- 2/3 cup grated cheddar
- 2/3 cup grated mozzarella
Instructions
- Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F.
- Mix the dough according to package or recipe directions. Set aside.
- Sauté the vegetables in the butter and scramble the eggs.
- Add the other ingredients and stir. Salt and pepper to taste.
- Roll the dough to a thickness of 1/4-inch. Use the dough press to cut circles. Place a circle in the dough press.
- Place a filling on the lower half.
- Brush water on the edges of the pastry. The water will help seal the dough seam.
- Use the dough press to fold the top of the calzone crust over the bottom and seal the edges. Be sure to press firmly enough to seal the edges.
- Just before baking, brush the crust with an egg white wash or olive oil. An egg white wash will give the calzones a satiny finish. Olive oil will make the crust browner and crisper.
- Bake the calzones on a dark pan on the lowest shelf of the oven to provide enough bottom heat to bake the bottom crust. Bake at 375 degrees for about 15 minutes, until the crust is browned. Serve hot.
Dennis Weaver is the founder of The Prepared Pantry, a full line kitchen store in Rigby, Idaho. The Prepared Pantry sells kitchen tools, gourmet foods, and baking ingredients including hundreds of hard-to-find ingredients.