Starting to believe Republicans think the wall is a 13 year old girl the way they drool over it. The midterms didn't teach them a fucking thing.

Look directly at Ro Khanna's own X account after Tuesday night. He didn't post a bill to lower grocery prices. He posted three words: "DEI is back." 🤡 Read those three words until they burn into your memory. Democrats didn't take Congress to help working fathers buy steak or pay the electric bill. They took Congress to bring back woke quotas, gender lectures, and anti-meritocracy madness. They lied to get your vote, and laughed in your face the next morning. 🔥

🇺🇸A must watch powerful video, it’s time to unit.🇺🇸

🤣🤣🤣

Nine people in ten would point at the steak on the right and call it the healthy one, and I have run out of patience with every single one of them. The one on the right is a ribeye with the ribeye taken out. The one on the left is the animal as it was built, a cap of fat round the edge thick enough to earn the word, a seam of it between the muscles, marbling through the eye so dense it looks like frost. Fifty years ago the butcher would have charged you more for the one on the left and apologised for the one on the right. Now the trimmed one is premium and the real one is a guilty pleasure, and the country that fell for that is the country with the diabetes clinic. The fat is the food. A, D, E and K2 live in it and nowhere else on the plate. The flavour lives in it, which is why the right one needs a jus and the left one needs a knife. The fullness lives in it, which is why the right one has you at the fridge by nine and the left one has you forgetting breakfast. The fuel lives in it. The red is the packaging, and you have been taught to buy the packaging and tip the contents away. And this fat, out of every fat on the counter, is the one that cannot hurt you. The cow's rumen saturated it before it reached her. It sits solid and white on the board, it does not go rancid in the pan the way the bottle of sunflower oil does, and it is the fat your great-grandmother fried everything in while heart disease was still a rarity you wrote up in a journal. So who convinced you otherwise. A margarine firm with a heart on the lid, a 1977 guideline written by a man who never ran a trial, and forty years of magazine covers, every one of them paid by somebody with a bottle to sell. They could not sell you the fat on the left, because it comes free with the cow. So they taught you to fear it and sold you the substitute. Half a century on, the lean one costs more, tastes of less, leaves you hungry, and gets called healthy by people who have never once asked what the fat was for. The one on the left. Eat the edge first. Stop apologising for being right.

SA’AR!!! YOU CAN’T PARK THERE!!! x.com/UnseenCCTV_/status/211…

This is the real reason why companies are laying off American workers in droves. AI is just an excuse to distract attention away from it.

Last spring, at a national cemetery in Texas, an American flag was folded into a triangle and handed to a Japanese nurse. It was supposed to go to the family. There was no family. There was just her. Her name is Haruna. Thirteen years ago, she was one of my wife's high school students in Tokyo. She spent a year in Texas as an exchange student. She came home, became a nurse, and went right back. She says Texas is the only place that ever felt that big inside her chest. Now she's 29. She works nights at a care home for veterans in San Antonio. Her family is eleven time zones away. Most nights, it's just her and the hallway lights. The man in Room 14 was named Otis. He was 91. Korean War. Army. He fought in the war America forgot, and then he outlived everyone who remembered him. His wife. His brother. His friends. Every single one. Nobody had visited Room 14 in six years. Otis was not easy. He called her "Tokyo." She's from Osaka. She told him every night. He did not care. He could not say her name. In two years, he tried Harna, Harley, Hannah, and once, with complete confidence, Hawaii. He cheated at cards. Badly. She caught him every time. He denied it every time. He taught her Texas sayings, and she wrote them down in a little notebook. "That dog won't hunt." "Madder than a wet hen." "He's all hat and no cattle." She started using them on the day shift. The other patients thought it was the funniest thing they'd ever heard. But at three in the morning, when neither of them could sleep, Otis was different. At three in the morning, he told her things. About a frozen hill in Korea, in the winter of 1951. About the cold, which he said was not like cold at all, but like being hit. About his best friend, Eddie Ray, who was 19, and who he carried down that hill on his back. All the way down. Eddie Ray didn't make it. Otis had never told anyone. Not his wife. Not anyone. Seventy-five years. He told a Japanese nurse, at three in the morning, in Room 14. She didn't say anything. She just held his hand. He let her. She taught him to fold paper cranes. His hands shook so badly the first ones looked like crumpled napkins. He kept at it. One crane a night. He lined them up on his windowsill, and he would not let the day shift move a single one. One night in February, he was quiet for a long time. Then he said: "Who's gonna come to my funeral, Tokyo? Everybody I know is already up there waiting." She said, "I'll come." He thought about it. Then he nodded. "Well. That's one." He died in March, at 2:40 in the morning. She was holding his hand. She was afraid that nobody would come. That it would be her, and a chaplain, and an empty field. The funeral home posted a message online that afternoon. "Korean War veteran. 91. No family. Please don't let him be buried alone." She didn't know what happened next until she drove to the cemetery. The road was lined with flags. For miles. People had come out of their houses and stood at the edge of the highway holding them. Four hundred motorcycles rode in formation behind the hearse. Big men in leather vests, gray beards, engines rumbling so low you could feel it in your teeth. Truckers pulled onto the shoulder and stood beside their rigs with their caps over their hearts. A whole elementary school came, holding signs in crayon. "THANK YOU OTIS." "WE REMEMBER." One said "THANK YOU OTIS FOR YOUR SERVICE AND ALSO WE ARE SORRY." Old men in Korean War veteran caps came in wheelchairs. When the casket passed, they pulled themselves up on their armrests and saluted. A Korean-American woman brought a bouquet of white flowers. She told Haruna her grandparents had lived through that war. "He fought for my family," she said. "So I came for his." Three thousand people. Three thousand strangers. For a man none of them had ever met. Haruna stood at the very back. The only person there who had ever heard his voice. At the end of the service, the honor guard folded the flag from his casket. Thirteen folds. Slow. Perfect. Into a tight triangle of stars. Then the officer turned to present it to the next of kin. There wasn't one. He looked at the funeral director. The funeral director looked across the crowd, and pointed. At her. And the officer walked through three thousand people. All the way to the back. To a small Japanese woman in a nurse's coat. He knelt in front of her. He held out the flag. And he said the words they say to the family. On behalf of a grateful nation. Three thousand Americans turned around to look at her. As if she was his family. Because she was. That evening, she went back to Room 14 to collect his things. There wasn't much. A watch. A Bible. Two decks of cards, both marked. And in the drawer of his nightstand, one more paper crane. The last one he ever folded. Something was written on the wing. In pencil. In very shaky capital letters. Her name. Spelled right. For the first time. "HARUNA. THANKS FOR COMING. THAT'S ONE." The flag is on a shelf in her little apartment in San Antonio now. The crane is next to it. She told my wife something on the phone that I keep thinking about. "He thought he'd have one person. He was off by about three thousand."

🚨🇬🇧An English man asking Muslims in the UK about jizya tax. Listen to the cavemans response. Wake up brothers. Islam out!!

These University of Ole Miss students are currently going viral after making monkey gestures outside of a black student’s living quarters. Blacks are asking for them to be kicked out of the school. Most coddled culture on the planet. If a group of black students called a white girl ‘milk monkey’ or ‘cracker’ you wouldn’t even hear about it. Grow up. Have a banana. 🍌 You aren’t you when you’re hungry.

Why is Randy Fine attacking a fellow Republican for criticizing Israel? Why does Randy Fine have more allegiance to a foreign nation than his own party?

Women pilots putting the 13/53 stat to shame

RT @ImBreckWorsham: BREAKING: UFC CEO Dana White just REJECTED Trump's offer to become White House Press Secretary, per CNN. 😂🤣😂🤣 You cou…

While secretly enjoying the show

Sad

Literally the meme in real life...

This is now Western civilization. We never even fought back.

My coworker Katie is 31. She's from a small town in eastern Oregon. She's worked in our Tokyo office for three years. Every Monday at lunch, she plays the whole floor a voicemail from her dad. It started by accident. Now fourteen Japanese office workers wait for it all week. Her dad's name is Lonnie. He's 67. He fixed school buses for 38 years. He does not text. He does not do video. Every Sunday, he leaves a voicemail. And every single one starts the same way. "Hi Katie. This is Dad." Pause. "Your father." In case she has several. Then the news. In three years, Lonnie's news has never once included a feeling. It includes: The weather. In detail. Including yesterday's. The dog, Rufus, and what Rufus did. Her mother's knee. The high school football score. Katie graduated thirteen years ago. She gets the score every week. And always, at the end: "Your fern's fine. I talked to it." When Katie moved to Japan, she left a fern in her old bedroom. Lonnie has never kept a plant alive in his life. Her mother says he waters it every Saturday morning, and he sits with it for a while, and nobody is allowed to ask what they talk about. Then he hangs up the exact same way. Every time. "Okay. Bye. This is Dad." Here's the part Katie told us later. For her first two years in Tokyo, Lonnie called at 3 a.m. Tokyo time. Every Sunday. He had done the time difference backward. She never told him. She set an alarm. Every week, at 2:55 a.m., she woke up so she could pick up and hear him live. It didn't matter. Even when she answered, he talked like it was a voicemail. "Hi Katie. This is Dad. Your father." Weather. Rufus. Knee. Football. Fern. "Okay. Bye. This is Dad." Click. Two years. She never got a word in. She says it was the best part of her week. This spring, he finally figured out the time. "I looked it up," he said. "Your Monday's my Sunday. That don't seem right. But okay." Now his calls land during her Monday meeting. So now we all get to hear them. When he says "Your father," our section chief mouths it along with him. He is 58. He has never been to America. He knows how Rufus is doing. In July, one voicemail was different. Weather. Rufus. Knee. Football. Fern. Then silence. Eleven seconds. We counted afterward. "Katie. I, uh." Four more seconds. "Okay. Bye. This is Dad." Nobody on our floor moved. Katie stared at her phone. Then she laughed so hard she started crying, and then she was just crying. "Thirty-one years," she said. "That's the closest he's ever gotten." In September, for his birthday, the fourteen of us recorded a voicemail for Lonnie. One at a time. In our best English. "Hi Lonnie. This is Tokyo." Pause. "Your daughter's office." Then the weather in Tokyo. Including yesterday's. Our section chief gave an update on his own knee. A young guy from accounting reported the Japanese high school baseball scores. Then Katie's desk mate said: "Katie's fine. We watered her Saturday." And all fourteen of us, together: "Okay. Bye. This is Tokyo." Lonnie did not call for two weeks. Katie's mother explained why. He had been playing it. At the diner every morning. At the old bus barn. At the men's breakfast at church. Twice, because the first time Earl wasn't paying attention. Then the next Sunday: "Hi Katie. This is Dad. Your father." Weather. Rufus. Knee. Football. Fern. "Tell Tokyo the weather's fine here." Pause. "Tell 'em thanks for looking after my girl." "Okay. Bye. This is Dad." He still has never said it. Katie says he's said it every Sunday for three years.