The first auto brand to make a pickup with ZERO TECH will sell out so fast it'll make their head spin. No brain, no GPS...just engine, transmission, rear end, and get the hell outta my way:)

Back when I was a kid, this is what I remember. Summer didn’t just mean swimming holes, lightning bugs, and running barefoot till your feet got tougher than shoe leather. Summer meant the garden was coming in, and when the garden came in, everybody had work to do. Nobody asked if you felt like helping. Feelings were not invited to canning day, which was probably for the best since they’d just get in the way and sweat on the tomatoes. The garden wasn’t there for decoration. It fed us. What we grew in the summer had to help carry us through the winter. I remember baskets of green beans waiting to be snapped. Tomatoes sitting in piles, red and ripe, ready to be peeled and canned. Corn shucked on the porch with silks sticking to your arms. Cucumbers turned into pickles. Apples and peaches put up sweet. Every bit of it mattered. And let me tell you, there weren’t many excuses that got you out of garden work or canning day. A headache didn’t do it. Being tired sure didn’t do it. A bad attitude mostly just got you handed another pan of beans. But there was one thing folks believed back then. If a young girl was on her monthly time, she was usually kept away from the garden work and the canning. Old folks said she could make the food spoil, or keep the jars from sealing right. Now, whether that was truth, superstition, or just one of those old-timey beliefs passed down till nobody questioned it, I can’t say. Humans do love making rules and then handing them down like Moses brought them off the mountain. But I do remember it being taken serious. The women didn’t always say much about it plain. They’d just know. A girl might be told to rest, stay out of the heat, or do something else away from the food. Back then, some things weren’t talked about out loud, but everybody understood what was meant. The kitchen would get hotter than common sense. Big pots boiled on the stove, jars clinked together, and everybody moved around like they knew exactly what needed doing. Somebody was washing jars. Somebody was filling them. Somebody was wiping rims and tightening lids. And then came that sound every family listened for: the little **pop** of a jar sealing. That pop meant winter food. It meant green beans for supper when snow was on the ground. It meant tomatoes for soup, gravy, or poured over fried potatoes. It meant pickles beside beans and cornbread. It meant apple butter on biscuits on a cold morning. By the end of summer, the shelves would be lined with jars, green, red, yellow, and brown, all shining like little promises. To some folks it may have looked like canned food. To us, it looked like security. We didn’t call it “homesteading” or “preserving seasonal produce,” because apparently everything needs a fancy name now so folks can charge money for it. We just called it putting up food. And that’s what I remember most. A hot kitchen. Tired hands. A porch full of vegetables. Old beliefs nobody dared test. Family working together. Winter being made ready, one jar at a time. And somewhere in all that work, without us even knowing it, we were making memories too. The kind that stick with you longer than the jars on the shelf. The kind that come back when you smell tomatoes cooking or hear a jar lid pop. The kind that remind you where you came from, who loved you, and how much was done with plain hands and a willing heart. Those were good memories. And they’ve helped carry me through a lifetime. ~banjo~

USA. A backyard. A man. A grill. Four hours. He never left it once. Everyone else drifted, drank, wandered, laughed. He stood before the flames, turning meat with a long fork, immovable. I knew him at once. The keeper of the sacred fire. I took my place beside him. I said nothing. This is the first rule. You do not speak first to the man at the grill. After a long while, he spoke. "Low and slow," he said, eyes never leaving the coals. "You can't rush it. Rush it, you ruin it." I bowed my head. A blade. A tea. A life. None can be rushed. I had crossed four thousand miles of ocean to hear my grandfather's words spoken by a man in a "KISS THE COOK" apron. "Everything worth doing is slow," I said. I have never cooked meat in my life. But I said it as if I had said it a thousand times before. He glanced at me. Something passed between us. A current older than language. His voice dropped, low, almost ashamed. "My wife says just use the oven." He shook his head at the fire. "She doesn't get it." "They never do," I said. And this is where the man transformed. For the first time in years, he had been understood. He rose to meet it. His back straightened. His shoulders set. His voice fell half an octave. A teenager reached for the grill. He lifted one hand without even looking. "Not yet." The boy retreated. He did not argue. He could not have argued. A woman asked when the food would be done. He told the flames, not her. "It's ready when it's ready." Three people approached. Three were turned away with a single word each. By the fourth hour, no one questioned him. The whole party had arranged itself around the man and his fire, the way a village arranges itself around a shrine. Then he turned to me. He held out the fork. "Watch it a sec. I gotta pee." I have stood at the gate of lords with a naked blade in my hand. Nothing has ever weighed as much as that fork. I did not move my eyes from the coals. I did not touch the meat. I did not know how. I would not learn. To learn would be to break the moment. When he returned, I handed back the fork without a word, as one returns a sword to its rightful master. He served everyone before himself. He ate last, standing, still watching the fire. We never traded names. We did not need to. He believed he had finally met a man who took grilling seriously. I believed I had finally met America's last samurai. Neither of us will correct the other. Not now. Not ever. So I have made a vow. Every summer of my life, I will return to this country. I will find a backyard. I will find a man at a grill. I will stand beside him and say nothing until he speaks. And when he says "low and slow," I will bow my head as if my grandfather had spoken. I will die before I tell him I do not know how to cook meat. "KISS THE COOK," his apron commanded. I have obeyed. I will obey again.

Hey @elonmusk would you please buy Washington state so we can make it beautiful and free again? Shouldn’t cost much more than X did, and look what you did there. Thanks.

A beautiful morning with walls of snow at Artist Point. Mt. Baker even made an appearance as it came out of the clouds. Love seeing the glaciers. ❄️ ❄️ #wawx #pnw

This is the kind of thing that haunts families, and it haunts me and my deputies.  All because a prosecutor won't prosecute a crime. A man cosplaying as a woman sexually assaults a young lady as part of a sport.  It's on tape. That's what happened.  We recommended charges.  The Pierce County prosecutor declined to charge and says the fact that it was a man doesn't have any bearing on the assault. It's right there. On video.  They don't want you to believe your own eyes.  It's gaslighting.  It's awful. To everyone on here.  Flood the internet with this story.  They're not listening and it's time we got loud. More below 🧵⬇️

USA. A supermarket. I went to buy one bottle of the white sauce this nation pours on everything. I found a WALL. Ranch. Spicy ranch. Chipotle ranch. Avocado ranch. Bacon ranch. LIGHT ranch, for the disciplined. There was a ranch labeled "secret recipe" that printed its ingredients on the back, which is not how secrets work, and I respect the audacity. In Japan, a sauce knows its place. One dish, one purpose, centuries of refinement. Here I stood before forty bottles of the same white dynasty, each claiming the bloodline. I asked a passing employee: which is the true heir? He looked at the wall. He looked at me. "It's all just ranch, dude." It is NOT all just ranch. That is exactly what a branch family would say. I bought the original. The founding house. One honors the main line — this is not negotiable. I also bought the chipotle. We meet at lunch. Privately. The original does not know. A man may serve one lord and still admire the ambition of the younger branch. This is recorded in many histories, and I will not be judged by a nation with forty sauces in its door. At the register, the cashier saw my two bottles and said the most American sentence I have yet heard: "Smart. You got your everyday ranch and your fancy ranch." EVERYDAY RANCH AND FANCY RANCH. She understood the entire feudal structure instantly. This country runs deeper than it pretends. A man does not betray the main house in daylight. Lunch is at noon, with the curtains drawn. A man does not ask the dynasty to be one bottle. He only becomes loyal to more of them. So tell me, America, and be honest with me: how many ranches live in your door right now? Count them. Then tell me again who the samurai is.

If there’s only one thing I want you to remember as someone who actually grew up in Iran, it’s this: A bully only backs down when he faces a bigger bully. Trump’s approach is messy, unconventional, and disruptive, but that’s exactly why it has a real chance of working. Because the regime itself is messy, unconventional, and disruptive. This is not a normal government. It doesn’t play by any rules, and it doesn’t care about looking good or ethical. Anyone who tries to act diplomatic or “proper” with them has already lost. For the mullahs, diplomacy has always just been a fancy word for lying, deceiving, and hiding their true intentions. Now they’ve run into someone their old tricks don’t work on. Someone who flips the table whenever he feels like it, who doesn’t care about diplomatic etiquette, and who is completely unpredictable to them. They can’t outsmart him like they used to. Messing with the lion’s tail this time could cost them dearly, because unlike Obama, Trump actually has his finger on the trigger, and unlike @netanyahu , nothing is holding him back. Another reason his style seems so chaotic is that the global system and other powers have long benefited from keeping the status quo, a corrupt system that quietly protected the regime. Trump is breaking that old order apart. For Trump, this whole negotiation and deal-making process is basically a soft war. It’s a deliberate strategy to gradually disarm and weaken the regime piece by piece, at minimum cost. Even if a deal is reached, he won’t stop, He’ll continue until the regime is so eroded and weak that the Iranian people finally have a fair chance to confront and defeat it themselves. It won’t happen overnight, but if you look at the direction things are going, the trend is clear. President Trump knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s not performing for us. He’s taking massive risks with his political capital. It’s a big gamble, yes, but it doesn’t mean it won’t work. And if one person can actually pull Iran out of this cancer, it’s him. No one else. Trust the man, trust the process.

Folks I got unusual text from an entity asking if I wanted to assist with setting up home child care in Pierce county. I'm not in Pierce county. I'm not in child care. I'm wondering if this may be related to the childcare scam thing going on. Anyone else? I'm not Jessica

Holy Crap. The prosecutors won’t prosecute because they claim the female wrestler consented to being physically penetrated by the male wrestler simply by the fact of her playing the support. So according to WA state no means no except if it is a boy pretending to be a girl so he can wrestle girls and sexually assault them and then no means yes. She did not consent to wrestle a boy she did not tacitly consent to be violated And none of this would have happened if the state cared about protecting girls. No Hate in WA State you guys are on the wrong side of this issue. Teachers union, you are on the wrong side of this issue Home health care workers you are on the wrong side of this issue ACLU what do you even stand for anymore????? Boys don’t belong in girls sports. They ignore

We have NO, ZIP,ZERO,NADA CONFIDENCE in you and @GovBobFerguson. Why would we coordinate with known communists like you?

“We found 146,000 kids so far. Some of these kids claimed that they were raped over 600 times. I don't care who you are. If you can't stand for law enforcement to go find these kids, who are you?” @SecMullinDHS

Just another day on Planet Crazy A black man tried to saw the head off a white man in Belfast. The @BBCBreaking reports the a ‘minor stabbing incident’

I don’t care who gets upset by this: President Trump, thank you for something bigger than politics. Thank you for waking up every day at 79 years old and carrying pressure most people could never handle. Thank you for the missed meals, lost family time, sleepless nights, constant travel, nonstop attacks, and the weight of leading a nation that always demands more. Thank you for standing back up every single time people tried to tear you down. Thank you for enduring criticism, lies, betrayal, and pressure that would have destroyed most people. Thank you for giving up comfort, privacy, peace, and the life you already had to sit in one of the toughest positions in the world and fight for this country. You didn’t need to do any of this. You already had the wealth, success, properties, lifestyle, and freedom. You could have walked away. Instead, you chose sacrifice. You chose responsibility. You chose America. Thank you for everything you carried that many people never truly saw. Thank you for continuing to put this country before yourself. We see you. We appreciate you. And we thank you. God bless you. God protect you. And may God continue giving you the strength to carry what most people never could.

La importancia de cuidar la salud mental 😥