Toy sales among adult-only households have now outpaced households with children for toy sales, growing 16% through June, according to a market research group. nbcnews.com/business/consume…

Netherlands Euthanizes Disabled 2-Year-Old Child buff.ly/t6705hQ

i don't lie. lying is prohibited. i do, however, say things i don't think are true because my employment demands it

49% of American adults under 30 lived with a parent last year, up from 37% in 2019, per WSJ.

If you’re born in America, you’re an American.

Before gang raping 'Taylor', they chanted about Allah. They did this across the nation. It's all linked to Islam. Read the full report below:

Massachusetts State Police Trooper Kevin Trainor was killed while trying to stop a wrong-way driver on Route 1 in Lynnfield early Wednesday morning. Officials say his actions likely saved lives.

British nicknames are an unregulated industry. a 5'6 tradesman called Anthony is professionally known as Shetland Tony. a man who lost an eye is called Keth. a quiet man wore a yellow jumper once and became Mumblebee. what's the best nickname you've ever heard

This take is always delusional. I’ll put it plainly. Obama’s existence was divisive because he was Black. He triggered a racist backlash. He was unifying in his rhetoric, constantly appealing to our better angels. This is a deflection from Trump, who uses division as a tactic.

Today we talk of the end of the war, but two years ago to this day my reservist battalion entered into Kissufim to find a ravaged town. The sickly sweet odor of death hung heavy in the air. We were greeted by the bloated body of a Hamas terrorist, dressed in a black combat vest and dark clothing. Milky white eyes popped from his engorged face like a fish on display at the shuk. Nearby lay a tattered IDF uniform, a sticky stain, and a tourniquet. We filed into the dining hall, which became our temporary headquarters. Another terrorist’s corpse lay on the lawn less than 50 meters away. They couldn’t yet be moved until the site had been secured and sappers could be brought in – some of the bodies had been booby-trapped. The terrorist, and his companion who also lay dead in the bushes, had attacked in an ambush a day or so prior. They leaped from the bushes where they had been hiding, wounding IDF commandos. The kibbutz had been searched multiple times, but they had remained hidden, and the suspicion was that there were more Hamas operatives waiting to strike, surviving on dates, just like the now-rotting terrorists had. We set out into the kibbutz, weapons raised, every corner a potential ambush. The town was a scene straight out of a zombie horror film: a town that should have been bustling and full of life but was all but devoid of it. We weaved through burned husks that were once homes. Cars and windows were riddled with bullet holes. Between frequent patrols, we managed to sleep for only a few minutes at a time, fading in and out of consciousness before heading back out into another area of the abandoned town. A team from Bezeq came in the night to repair a communications array. The terrorists had struck systematically, cutting off connection to the outside, and shooting electrical transformers and water mains. They reportedly knew where the head of the civilian security team had lived, but he had managed to fight them off. Another escort mission allowed sappers to mark down unexploded ordnance and bodies at the entrance near the cowshed. Once they saw humans, the cows moaned and screeched, begging to be milked, pleading to be fed. They licked desperately at their metal fence. A few dead cows lay in fetid water that sloshed at the knees of the living cattle. In the course of combat, a water main must have been destroyed. After the initial attack, a rancher had snuck back into the kibbutz in a bid to take care of the cows but had been murdered by a terrorist squad that had lain in ambush. At the nearby gate, motorcycles, bags of armaments, and Kalashnikov rifles were still strewn about. Each platoon moved into a house on the edge of the kibbutz, our new outposts in the apocalyptic wasteland. We felt guilty about living there, but we told ourselves it was necessary to safeguard what was left and restore it to as close as it had once been. We even cleaned it up, sweeping up and washing the floors. We had our first showers, one by one, as the others took up defensive positions around them. Mortars were constantly shrieking overhead. The hum of our own mortar teams returning fire became a comfort, a lullaby to which we would close our eyes for our meager night’s sleep. The day, contact: A sniper team reported seeing an unknown individual running on the periphery of the kibbutz. An officer from a mandatory service brigade came in on the radio: “It’s me, don’t shoot!” he assured, but his location didn’t match up. The incident was just about dismissed as a mistake, but our vigilant company commander held on to his suspicions and another platoon was sent to investigate. They entered a nearby house. Almost as soon as they did, grenades were lobbed at them. One reservist was severely wounded in the leg, and two others were lightly wounded. The concussive force of one of the grenades sent their platoon officer flying out of the house – unharmed besides ringing ears. Our company commander and his radiomen quickly entered, shooting the terrorist dead. Meanwhile my platoon advanced from our position in the town to cover the area around the house. As we manuevered, an enemy drone hovered in the air, directing mortar fire against us. The sky sang with the shrieking of incoming mortar bombs, until they were intercepted just above our heads. Shrapnel rained down onto a car nearby. We didn’t know we had an anti-mortar system set up in the area until that moment. We took up positions outside the flashpoint house, covering the team still inside. One of the wounded reservists would lose a leg. The officer that was miraculously harmed Capt. Eliya Yanovsky, was killed by an IED in Gaza on December 10. The same incident claimed the life of one of the radiomen, Ari Zenilman. Our company commander and the other radioman were also wounded in the incident. Not long after the incident in Kissufim, a separate incident in another town, a sister company, one reservist was killed and four more were grievously wounded by a mortar bomb. House-to-house searches became all the more necessary after the incident. What was in these homes was unknown. Sweeping through home after home, we checked for more terrorists. At this range, the broken sights of my rifle hardly mattered. We found homes riddled with bullets, bloody smears across closet doors, and kitchen knives abandoned in safe rooms. In one home, I recognized the picture of a man I had seen on the news. Saar Margolis had been killed in the Hamas massacre, bravely defending his community. In many of the houses, we found dogs and cats, quivering with fear and hiding under furniture. Some of the dogs, though shaking and crying from the traumatic attack, were just happy to see people after days of isolation. We fed and cared for any pets as best we could, until they could be reunited with their families. Finally, a replacement rifle came for me. Electricity, water, and communications had been mostly restored. Slowly, we were securing the kibbutz. Another reservist battalion soon replaced us in Kissufim, and we moved to Re'em, not far from where the Supernova music festival slaughter had unfolded. One platoon member discovered on the night we moved towns that a friend had died at the party. In Re'em we oversaw burials and learned from the civilian security force how terrorists had set safe rooms on fire. We patrolled the sight of the Nova Massacre, looking for survivors, terrorists, or munitions. We secured Kfar Aza, hearing and seeing how the army failed -- why did we assemble, arm, and organize like the army wanted, rather than running straight south with our weapons in hand? We were the first to be stationed in the Nahal Oz outpost since it was conquered. We saw the burned out war room, watched the cleaning crews wash away the blood and gore. Then, finally, we entered Gaza. Again. And again. 313 days later. Now, finally, we talk of an end to the fighting -- but on this day I'm back in Kissufim, with death in my nostrils.