Todo jovem que marca pelo Brasil é comparado a... uma data: 19 de junho de 1958. Foi quando um garoto de 17 anos fez seu primeiro gol em Copas, o único da vitória sobre o País de Gales, e se tornou o mais jovem a balançar a rede em um Mundial. Sessenta e oito anos se passaram, novas gerações surgiram, e o recorde continua sendo de Pelé. . Every young player who scores for Brazil gets compared to one date: June 19, 1958. That was the day a 17-year-old scored his first World Cup goal, the only one in the win over Wales, and became the youngest player ever to find the net at a World Cup. Sixty-eight years have passed, new generations have come, and the record still belongs to Pelé.show more

Nesta partida, em 1958, Pelé ainda não carregava o... título de Rei. Foi justamente após esse jogo que os franceses lhe deram esse apelido, reconhecendo o talento extraordinário do jovem Edson, que ainda era apenas um garoto em busca de sua primeira conquista na Copa do Mundo. Na vitória por 5-2, Pelé brilhou marcando um hat-trick, um momento que marcou o início de sua lenda no futebol. . On this match, in 1958, Pelé had not yet earned the title of King. It was after this game that the French awarded him with the nickname, recognizing the extraordinary talent of young Edson, who was still just a boy chasing his first World Cup victory. In the 5-2 win, Pelé shone brightly, scoring a hat-trick—a moment that marked the beginning of his legendary journey in football.show more

A postagem feita por Donald Trump nesta terça-feira, 2... de junho, quase uma semana após a visita de Flávio Bolsonaro à Casa Branca, possui um peso político muito maior do que aparenta à primeira vista. Se o objetivo fosse apenas registrar o encontro, a publicação teria sido feita no mesmo dia da reunião, mas não foi. Trump escolheu publicar a imagem agora, em um momento de forte tensão política entre Brasília e Washington, de debates sobre sanções, liberdade de expressão, PCC, Comando Vermelho, tarifas comerciais e da crescente aproximação do governo Lula com a China. Trump não se limitou a publicar uma foto, ele fez questão de elogiar Flávio Bolsonaro publicamente, chamando-o de "um jovem inteligente que ama muito o seu país, o Brasil". Na linguagem política americana, isso não é um detalhe. Presidentes escolhem cuidadosamente quem destacam, quando destacam e de que forma destacam. O significado da postagem está justamente no timing. Ela acontece enquanto o governo americano aumenta o tom das críticas em relação ao Brasil e enquanto o cenário político brasileiro já se movimenta para as eleições de 2026. Ao publicar a imagem agora, Trump sinaliza proximidade com o principal grupo de oposição ao governo Lula e sinaliza que o movimento político liderado pela família Bolsonaro continua sendo visto em Washington como um ator relevante para o futuro do Brasil. Em política internacional, símbolos importam, e poucas imagens carregam mais simbolismo do que uma foto dentro do Salão Oval acompanhada de elogios assinados pelo presidente dos Estados Unidos. Não foi apenas uma simples postagem, foi um gesto político calculado, publicado exatamente no momento em que produziria o maior impacto possível dentro do debate político brasileiro.show more

A música “Everybody Wants to Rule the World”, do... Tears for Fears, soa leve, quase inocente. Mas carrega uma verdade incômoda: o poder seduz, corrompe e, quase sempre, transforma homens em reféns de si mesmos. É um retrato atemporal, e, olhando para o Brasil de hoje, parece mais atual do que nunca. Vivemos um tempo em que muitos querem governar, poucos querem servir e raríssimos resistem à tentação de se apaixonar pelo próprio poder. A política virou palco, vaidade, cálculo frio. E nesse cenário, a frase “todo mundo quer governar o mundo” deixa de ser apenas uma constatação e passa a ser um aviso. O que vemos hoje é mais do que disputa política. É uma tentativa clara de reescrever a memória. Apagar, desconstruir e substituir. Não apenas ideias, mas símbolos. Porque ideias podem ser debatidas, mas símbolos mobilizam, despertam e permanecem. E é justamente por isso que a figura de Jair Bolsonaro incomoda tanto. Não porque foi perfeito, nenhum homem é, mas porque representou algo raro: alguém que, ao chegar ao topo, não se moldou completamente ao sistema que deveria dominar. Em um ambiente onde o poder costuma domesticar, ele tensionou. Onde muitos se adaptam, ele confrontou. Onde tantos se encantam com os privilégios, ele manteve, aos olhos de seus apoiadores, uma relação mais direta com o povo e com a ideia de país. E isso, em política, é imperdoável. A música fala que nada dura para sempre. E é verdade. Mas há algo que resiste ao tempo: a memória coletiva. Por isso, o esforço não é apenas derrotar politicamente, é fazer esquecer. É diluir, relativizar, reduzir a uma nota de rodapé aquilo que, para muitos, foi um ponto de ruptura. Como na canção, há um jogo silencioso acontecendo. Não é só sobre governar o mundo, é sobre controlar a narrativa, definir quem foi herói e quem deve ser esquecido. Mas a história não pertence aos que gritam mais alto no presente. Pertence aos que deixam marcas reais. E talvez a grande lição, tanto da música quanto do momento que vivemos, seja essa: o poder passa, a vaidade se dissolve, mas aquilo que é percebido como verdade pelo povo permanece, mesmo quando tentam apagar.show more

“E se Deus existir, mas não for algo que... a mente humana foi feita para compreender?” Essa é a pergunta inquietante que parece estar no coração de Portrait of God (2022), um curta de terror que conquistou milhões de espectadores ao transformar uma ideia profundamente filosófica e religiosa em uma experiência perturbadora. A história acompanha Mia, uma jovem que prepara uma apresentação sobre uma misteriosa pintura conhecida como “Retrato de Deus”. Conforme ela se aprofunda na investigação da obra, passa a confrontar algo que desafia não apenas sua fé, mas também sua própria percepção da realidade. O terror do filme não está em sustos fáceis ou criaturas grotescas. Ele surge da possibilidade de que o divino exista, mas seja tão vasto e incompreensível que a mente humana simplesmente não consiga processá-lo. É justamente essa premissa que tornou o curta tão comentado entre os fãs de horror. Em vez de retratar Deus como uma figura familiar ou reconfortante, o filme flerta com uma ideia muito mais desconcertante: a de que a verdadeira natureza do criador pode estar muito além de qualquer conceito, imagem ou linguagem que os seres humanos sejam capazes de conceber. O impacto foi tão grande que a obra chamou a atenção de dois dos maiores nomes do cinema de terror contemporâneo. Em 2025, foi anunciado que Portrait of God ganhará uma adaptação para os cinemas produzida por Jordan Peele, diretor de Corra! e Nós, e por Sam Raimi, criador da franquia The Evil Dead e diretor da trilogia clássica de Homem-Aranha. A adaptação expandirá a mitologia do curta, embora os detalhes da trama ainda sejam mantidos em segredo. Se o longa conseguir preservar a mesma atmosfera de mistério e inquietação que tornou o curta tão marcante, poderá se tornar uma das obras de horror religioso mais interessantes dos próximos anos. Afinal, poucas ideias são tão assustadoras quanto encarar a possibilidade de que a resposta para a pergunta mais antiga da humanidade esteja muito além daquilo que somos capazes de compreender.show more

Eduardo Bolsonaro nasceu sob holofote e coturno. Cresceu num... ambiente onde a aprovação do pai valia mais que seu boletim, diploma ou realidade. Essa é a verdade. Não era sobre aprender, como qualquer criança. Era sobre agradar o pai. Dentro de casa, a régua era simples: quem fala alto manda; quem quer carinho obedece. Eduardo aprendeu cedo essa fórmula de sobrevivência emocional: sempre caçou elogio, como quem caça o ar. E quando o elogio não vem de casa, ele busca fora. Ele tem uma dependência emocional fortíssima por aprovação. Avança para a vida pública. Deputado por São Paulo, voto de avalanche, recorde, peito estufado. Sua melhor fase. E o resto você conhece: cada microfone virava uma armadilha que ele mesmo armava. Sempre, sempre na busca de aprovação. Propõe o que não cabe na Constituição, promete o que o governo nunca poderia fazer, canta vitória antes da batalha no youtube e serve munição para a imprensa com o zelo de um garçom atencioso. São cortes de vídeos (soldado e um cabo), fotos o pai conversando com ele ao telefone. O pai, para evitar incêndio, sempre tentou apagar o filho em público. Foi assim mais de uma vez. Quando não desautorizava, esfriava pelo menos. O entorno do Jair não me deixa mentir. E quando Messias não o esfriava, manda calar mesmo, era o jeito! É o “garoto” tratado como “garoto” mesmo já adulto, ao vivo e em rede nacional. Mas há um problema nisso. Isso humilha. Isso marca. Isso cria buraco enorme no Eduardo. Vem a fase do deslumbramento diplomático. O sonho de Washington. O quase embaixador. A ideia nasce mimada e morre ridicularizada. O Senado mexe a sobrancelha, o corpo diplomático enruga a testa, o país inteiro percebe o óbvio: faltava lastro, sobrava sobrenome. Recuo com gosto de derrota e uma culpa injusta direcionada ao pai. O carimbo de nepotismo cola e não sai com água e sabão, mas deixa uma cicatriz enorme. Mais um lembrete de que, sem o pai segurando na mão, o mundo é hostil para o Eduardo. Depois, a síndrome do porrete. A fala do AI-5, aquela bravata que uniu contra ele quem nunca concorda em nada. Porta fechada, dedo em riste, nota de repúdio de todo lado. E de novo o roteiro doméstico: o pai manda esquecer, o filho recua, pede desculpa atravessada, tenta recontar a frase como se fosse mal entendida. Não foi. O país entendeu. E guardou de novo. Em seguida, a geopolítica de meme. Cutuca a China em plena pandemia, arruma confusão com quem vende o remédio, assusta até aliado militar. Apaga postagem, finge que não foi nada, paga o preço em silêncio. O jogo institucional vai seguindo, e Eduardo vai perdendo dentro de casa: perde espaço, perde confiança, perde paciência e em certa forma, o direito de falar em nome do pai. Vira o que sempre foi e não aceitava ser: UM RUÍDO CARO. Chega o pós derrota presidencial. O movimento radical precisa de voz de novo, Eduardo quer ser a voz por iniciativa própria. O país vira campo minado, as instituições reagem, o filho radicaliza mais. No meio do caos, a família trinca. Vazamentos expõem o teatro íntimo: o pai chama de imaturo, vagão, o filho explode, xinga, ameaça tudo, todos, aliados. O pai não consegue mais ensinar lição. É o drama doméstico no palco do Jornal Nacional. Quem olha de fora enxerga um menino pedindo atenção, com granada na mão. E aí vem o pior capítulo americano. Licença do mandato, malas prontas, fuga para o conforto ideológico da Flórida. Missão autoproclamada: salvar o pai atacando o Brasil. Procura republicano, procura foto, procura manchete, mas na verdade, procura o de sempre: APROVAÇÃO. Tenta importar sanção, tenta humilhar ministro, tenta forçar país estrangeiro a torcer o nosso braço. Um deputado eleito trabalhando contra seu próprio país. Vejam que coisa surpreendente, ninguém aprova isso aqui dentro. É a prova química de que a carência virou projeto. “Se o Brasil não me aplaude, que me aplaudam lá fora”. Se a família me corta, eu arranjo outra. E A OUTRA FAMÍLIA SE CHAMA PAULO FIGUEIREDO. Entra em cena o gordinho baixinho. O único que nunca diz não para o Eduardo. O único que chama de gênio quando o mundo ri. O único que dá palco, roteiro e claque. O amiguinho imaginário que elogia a cada novo vídeo no Youtube. Assistam “Paulo Figueiredo Show e me digam se estou mentindo”. Enquanto a família critica, Paulo elogia. Enquanto a imprensa bate, Paulo afaga. Enquanto os aliados pedem prudência, Paulo sopra “vai, está brilhando meu príncipe”. É o primeiro a transformar fiasco em estratégia, derrota em astúcia, isolamento em martírio. Eduardo, faminto de validação, encontra enfim um banquete. E se senta aliviado. Daqui para frente, tudo fica transparente até para cego. Palavras do partido, de amigos, da opinião pública e da própria família. Eduardo não decide seu drama, reproduz Paulo e suas ideias de neto de Ditador. Não lidera, ecoa. Não manda, obedece. O léxico, a tática, a pauta, o tom, a birra, a ameaça ensaiada, tudo vem de uma usina só. O deputado vira um legítimo avatar de Paulo Figueiredo e todo mundo percebe. A esposa percebe, o Jair percebe. Mas ambos estão "presos" e com opinião isolada, cada um a sua maneira. Paulo escreve. Eduardo assina. A dupla atravessa a fronteira do aceitável com alegria de debutantes. O elogio funciona como anestesia e como vício do Eduardo. É nítido como Figueiredo age como dopamina política do Dudu. Cada aplauso de Paulo desliga o superego e acelera o id. Quando o pai chama de imaturo, dói. Quando Paulo chama de herói, sara instantaneamente. Você quer as razões profundas? Elas não são tão misteriosas. Psicologia básica: quem apanha de quem ama corre desesperadamente para quem afaga. Dependência de reforço positivo. Criança não guardada vira adulto carente. Some a isso isolamento social, perda de prestígio, investigações, e um entorno que só entrega bronca. O cérebro busca alívio. Alguém oferece elogio industrial em cápsulas diárias no Youtube e nas Redes Sociais. Pronto. Cadeado fechado. A chave fica com quem faz carinho. Sociologia elementar: quando a tribo expulsa, o exilado gruda no primeiro pajé que promete retorno em glória. Paulo vende glória, mesmo que o Eduardo saiba que é ilusória, ele se alivia nisso. Vende missão, vende redenção, vende palco em inglês e selfie com figurão na Casa Branca. É um vício incontrolável. O pacote vem com narrativa para engolir qualquer absurdo: se der certo, foram estratégicos; se der errado, foram perseguidos e injustiçados. Não tem derrota, tem prova de fidelidade entre ambos. É música para ouvidos carentes. E há a mecânica do poder, sempre impiedosa. O pai envelhece, o espaço rareia, os caciques querem ordem, a base quer pragmatismo. O príncipe precisa de reino e... não tem. Paulo oferece um “reino” paralelo, mesmo que virtual, feito de estúdio, recortes de vídeo e promessas do norte. O custo é simples: obediência. E Eduardo paga com prazer. O resultado prático é grotesco e óbvio: um parlamentar brasileiro fazendo lobby contra o próprio país enquanto se vende como guardião da pátria. Mas o mandato vai acabar, a elegibilidade e o dinheiro também. O retrato é este. Sem filtro: o fim chegará e nem Figueiredo, com toda a sua astúcia, conseguirá disfarçar. Veja bem, todos já perceberam. Até quem finge que não viu (como o Valdemar da Costa Neto, o Tarcísio, os outros governadores que buscam apoio de Bolsonaro, o Flavio e o próprio Jair: Eduardo não manda em nada nessa empreitada). PAULO SIM, faz o que quer. Quem opera tudo é o Paulo. O filho virou um instrumento porque precisava de dono. O elogio foi o laço, a carência foi o nó. Quando alguém perguntar por que ele obedece tanto, a resposta é indecente de tão simples: porque ali, pela primeira vez, ele é amado. De verdade ou por conveniência, ali ele encontrou o amor que sempre buscou. E por isso entrega tudo. Família, país, reputação, futuro. Entrega rindo, delirando. A tragédia é íntima, mas a farsa é pública. Só há uma maneira de Eduardo se libertar dessa prisão que não é jurídica: Olhar de novo com total prioridade para a Esposa e os filhos. Eles amam Eduardo de verdade. Dá tempo de consertar? Não sei. Mas essa é a ÚNICA direção possível. Só um amor genuíno sobrepõe um amor de interesses. Paulo é um sequestrador psicológico que entendeu bem a fraqueza do Eduardo. Se libertar de Figueiredo é um bom começo. Buscar aprovação em quem lhe oferece de graça, genuinamente, sem pedir nada em troca. O Brasil assistirá mais alguns capítulos sobre isso. Será que teremos alguma reviravolta? Vejamos.show more

Atleta do século. Não do futebol: do século. De... todos os esportes. Imagina escolher um atleta. Um. Pra representar o século XX inteiro, em qualquer esporte do planeta. Neste dia, em 1981, a L'Équipe juntou os 20 maiores jornais esportivos do mundo para fazer justamente isso. Foi o futebol vencendo o atletismo, o boxe e o ciclismo no mesmo voto. Em 1999, o COI bateu o martelo de novo: na votação entre 200 comitês olímpicos nacionais, Pelé venceu, mesmo nunca tendo disputado uma Olimpíada. Para homenagear o Rei, Paul Antoniuk fez este vídeo incrível. 👑 . Athlete of the century. Not of football: of the century. Across every sport. Imagine choosing one athlete. Just one. To represent the entire 20th century, across every sport on the planet. On this day in 1981, L'Équipe gathered the 20 biggest sports publications in the world to do exactly that. It was football beating track, boxing and cycling in the same vote. In 1999, the IOC made it official all over again: across the votes of 200 national Olympic committees, Pelé won, despite never having played in an Olympics. To honor the King, Paul Antoniuk made this incredible video. 👑 🎥:show more

Angela Carini abandona a luta contra uma mulher trans... nas olimpíadas de Paris. Ou seja, ela estava lutando contra um homem. Sou boxeador amador e posso dizer com segurança que é uma covardia permitir que homens enfrentem mulheres no boxe. Homens são aproximadamente 10% mais altos que as mulheres (Gaulin & Boster 1985), são 33% mais pesados, têm 61% mais massa muscular magra total, 75% mais massa muscular no braço, e 90% maior força da parte superior do corpo (Lassek & Gaulin 2009). Um homem comum é mais forte nos músculos superiores que 99% das mulheres comuns. Além disso homens reagem mais rapidamente, pensam melhor sob pressão, sentem menos dor, se recuperam mais rapidamente de lesões, tem pescoços mais fortes e resistentes que possibilita desferir socos devastadores, ao mesmo tempo que possuem estruturas ósseas na face que possibilitam resistir aos golpes. Homens tem corações maiores, maior aporte de oxigênio graças a pulmões maiores. Toda fisiologia e psicologia masculinas são voltadas para o combate, e as mulheres não são assim. Esportes femininos deveriam ser uma celebração de mulheres excepcionais, não uma oportunidade para homens fracassados se encontrarem ao fazer a "transição". Como regra geral, atletas de elite do sexo masculino apresentam cerca de 10 a 12% de vantagem de desempenho em relação a atletas de elite do sexo feminino (Re-Affirming the Value of the Sports Exception to Title IX’s General Non-Discrimination Rule; Coleman). Os homens tendem a superar as mulheres no atletismo por causa de vantagens naturais, como músculos maiores e mais poderosos, melhor consumo de oxigênio e maior eficiência biomecânica (Girls in the boat: Sex differences in rowing performance and participation; Keenan. Se homens e mulheres competirem juntos, as melhores atletas femininas não conseguiriam mais alcançar as primeiras posições. Por exemplo, usando dados de eventos de atletismo em todo o mundo, o tempo mais rápido para a corrida de 400 metros para mulheres foi batido por mais de 4.000 homens diferentes e quase 300 meninos diferentes (menores de 18 anos) (Coleman et al., 2020). Então a única forma de sermos justos, é que homens e mulheres devam competir separadamente. A razão para a vantagem masculina no esporte não são apenas os benefícios em termos de massa muscular, mas os benefícios da exposição pré-natal à testosterona, que programa o feto para desenvolver um corpo mais atlético após o nascimento (Coleman et al., 2020). Portanto, as pessoas que nascem do sexo masculino têm uma grande vantagem sobre as que nascem do sexo feminino, mesmo que esta última esteja tomando um suplemento de testosterona e os homens estejam tomando bloqueadores de testosterona. E existe uma coisa muito importante que quero falar sobre bloqueadores de testosterona que são administrados hoje de forma comum para rapazes (e até meninos) que desejam fazer a transição para o feminino: A testosterona é extremamente importante para o desenvolvimento correto do cérebro masculino. E temos um estudo sobre o caso de um adolescente de 11 anos que começou a usar bloqueadores hormonais (Brain Maturation, Cognition and Voice Pattern in a Gender Dysphoria Case under Pubertal Suppression; Maiko A. Schneider) com o objetivo de "fazer a transição" para o sexo feminino, e pela falta de testosterona ele teve uma queda de 11% em seu QI após 17 meses de "tratamento", ficando bem abaixo da média, já na área do que é considerado um r3tard0 mental. E é isso que querem estimular nos nossos jovens rapazes a fazer. Essa mudança que tentam passar como algo seguro e bom, aplicada cada vez mais cedo, tem criado uma legião de r3tardad0s, e vemos isso claramente entre a "militância das letrinhas".show more

📨 | CARTA ABERTA AO PRESIDENTE MÁRIO BITTENCOURT Ei,... brother… tu é foda, né? Conseguiu papar mais uma eleição, depois daquela queda pro Abad em 2016. Eu sei que você não será o presidente “de direito”, mas é impossível se desvencilhar da ideia de que continuará sendo o presidente “de fato”. Tu adora mandar, né? Desde a época em que eu “corrigia” seus textos antes de publicá-los no NETFLU. Faz parte do jogo. Aliás, gostei do perfume que tem usado ultimamente. É o CK One? Sempre achei que você combinava mais com algo amadeirado, mas ficou bom. O mesmo cheiro que te acompanhava na quarta te seguiu no sábado. Mas hoje não vou comentar sobre fragrâncias. Eu sei que, tal qual o Thanos, você será inevitável na próxima gestão. O Mattheuzinho já proclamou isso aos quatro ventos. Parece até um casamento perfeito: ninguém discute, ninguém briga, e sempre sobra tempo e disposição pra namorar a noite inteira. Sendo assim, já consciente de que, de algum modo, você vai assumir o futebol do clube quando deixar a presidência — o que, na prática, muda quase nada — eu preciso desabafar contigo. Urgentemente. Vamos lá. A tentação é grande, mas não precisa mandar mensagem todo dia pro Eduardo Uram, tampouco pro Bertolucci ou pro André Cury. Eles estavam ali nas más… e lucraram enquanto a gente sofria. Não significa que sejam a salvação nas boas. Já te falei pra largar essa ladainha de “gratidão” quando a coincidência beira a bizarrice profissional. Arquiva a conversa, porque, se você não procurar, pode ter certeza: eles procurarão você. E, por favor, tira essa galera do close friends. Melhor não dar chance pro azar. Ninguém precisa te ver suado, batucando um samba aleatório numa noite de sexta-feira primaveril. O departamento de scout também não é uma área que você abrace com tanto carinho assim. Uma dica: não contrate cegamente jogadores indicados por treinador sem fazer o básico - analisar histórico técnico, físico e mental dos últimos dois anos, pelo menos. Você virou chacota com a novela Soteldo. E já tinha sido antes, quando renovou com Hudson, Wellington, Guga, e trouxe o reserva do Bahia pra ocupar o lugar do promissor Kauã Elias. Por mais que diga ali nas Laranjeiras que não liga, a gente sabe que, às vezes, um ego ferido incomoda mais do que um coração partido. Outra coisa: esquece esse papo de comprar zagueiro a lote só pra fazer número. Tá conversando com o Nino e tal - tomara que funcione - mas não repita essa história de que “quem tem quatro zagueiros não tem nenhum”. Meu amigo, você pode ter vinte defensores no elenco; se todos forem ruins, aí mesmo é que não vai ter nenhum, sacou? Thiago Silva vale por três, mas só tem meio pulmão hoje em dia. Precisa de rotatividade pra aguentar o tranco. Então refresca a cabeça naquela piscininha com cascata que você gosta, bota Ferrugem no rádio, fecha os olhos e lembra da sua boemia em Vila Isabel. Que saudades daquele Mário, hein? Ousadia, alegria e muitos sonhos. “Você é responsável por aquilo que cativas”, presidente. Se existe uma legião de bravos apoiadores - sem trocadilho - também existe uma comunidade de haters. Faz parte. Quando o soco quebra o dente, o dente também pode arranhar o punho. De fora, a gente só tenta controlar a narrativa sobre a pancada. Lembro das nossas conversas ao telefone. Lembro das conversas no seu escritório na Santa Luzia, ou em algum restaurante da Cidade Maravilhosa. Relaxe: nada do que deveria ficar naquelas reuniões sairá delas. Nasceram e morreram ali, como cavaleiros que somos. Diga-se de passagem: você até melhorou no discurso. Antes dava sono. Agora está menos prolixo, mas ainda professoral demais. O Ronaldo pode fazer até melhor — e eu sei que vai. O Fluminense ainda é pequeno para as suas pretensões. Você é uma ave de rapina num cativeiro, pronta pra voar na selva. Mas ainda não é a hora. Registro aqui minha admiração pela sua constância — inclusive nos erros. A Libertadores tem a sua assinatura, apesar da linha de ataque e nem o técnico terem sido suas primeiras ou segundas opções. Em paralelo, sempre espero que responda no zap desde o caso Live Sorte, mas acho que encheram tanto a sua cabeça de abobrinha que não tem mais volta, né? Lá no fundo, ainda me inspira a ideia de tocar adiante depois de limpar ferida. Ano novo, vida nova, presidente. O Saint-Exupéry escreveu: “Era uma raposa igual a cem mil outras. Mas eu fiz dela uma amiga. Ela é agora única no mundo.” Assim éramos nós até 2019, mas perdemos essa força. Que o tempo te transforme num profissional de futebol melhor do que batedor de pênalti em pelada — embora eu ainda sinta aquele gol. Aliás, sua fixação pelo “Pequeno Príncipe” precisa ficar só da porta pra dentro, hein, cara? Papo reto. Essa frase de que “o essencial é invisível aos olhos” só funciona na literatura e em casais apaixonados. Nada tem que ser invisível num clube que se diz profissional. O nome disso é transparência — na SAF, nas transações, nas questões judiciais. Agora a bronca é do Matheus; dá pra colocar tudo na conta dele — e ele não vai ser deselegante a ponto de dizer que é seu legado. E quando o buraco apertar, a gente sabe que você vai meter a cara, igual cachorro louco, como fez naquele Fla-Flu ao lado do seu irmão (ver anexo), enquanto o Mattheus recuava à francesa. No fim de semana mesmo, naquela confusão com o Borim, você botou a bola azul na mesa e, supostamente, mandou que eram bons no voto e na porrada. Eu não duvido. Gosto quando usa sua testosterona pro bem. Que ela fale mais alto em 2026 — por todos os tricolores que acreditaram de novo no seu discurso e por aqueles que ainda torcem o nariz. Vamos por mais. Sempre. Com carinho, Paulo Brito PS: evite deixar o computador aberto quando não estiver usando. Ou, pelo menos, lembre-se de deslogar as redes sociais, principalmente se estiver no clube.show more

Repost @isapereiranunes 🇧🇷Momentos no backstage antes das finais do... Olympia 2024 🥹⭕️ “Fisiculturistas têm a capacidade única de esculpir seus corpos como obras de arte, onde cada detalhe é moldado com disciplina, esforço e trabalho duro.” Uma das coisas que eu mais amo no fisiculturismo é a capacidade que temos em nos reinventar a cada competição, o poder de construir a melhor versão de nós mesmos. Levar o corpo a esse nível não é uma tarefa fácil, pelo contrário, é muito difícil, mas é incrível olhar pra trás e ver do que somos capazes. 💪 Team @gnteam_usa @mrsaizen Adam Doctor Ronny Cipriano Bikini glamourbikinis ♥️ Hair @giahairs_ Extensions hair @jaybarbosastylist Highlights @gi_scatena 🇺🇸Backstage moments before the 2024 Olympia finals 🥹⭕️ “Bodybuilders have the unique ability to sculpt their bodies like works of art, where every detail is shaped with discipline, effort and hard work.” One of the things I love most about bodybuilding is the ability we have to reinvent ourselves with each competition, the power to build the best version of ourselves. Taking your body to this level is not an easy task, on the contrary, it is very difficult, but it is incredible to look back and see what we are capable of. 💪 #wellness #olympia #champion #isapereirashow more

The ground shook on Iwo Jima in 1945. Smoke... choked the air. Marines were pinned down, nowhere to run. And in that frozen second, a 17-year-old made a decision no one should ever have to make. Jacklyn Lucas was just a teenager. He had lied about his age to join the fight. Too young for war. Too young for what was coming. But there he was, on a battlefield that did not care how old you were. Then it happened. Two enemy grenades landed near his fellow Marines. No time to think. No time to hesitate. Lucas moved. He threw himself directly onto both grenades, pressing them into the sand with his body. He knew what it meant. He knew what would happen next. The explosions hit. Sand, metal, and shock tore through him. His body absorbed the blast meant for everyone else. Around him, Marines who should have been gone were still breathing. He had taken it all. By some miracle, he survived. But survival came at a cost. His body was shattered. Dozens of wounds. Long months of recovery. Pain that never truly left. At 17, he had already given more than most people ever will. He received the Medal of Honor. One of the youngest ever. But medals do not follow you home at night. The war stayed with him. The memories. The weight of that moment. The knowledge of what he did and what it took from him. He lived a long life after that day. But the world moved on. The story faded. The boy who jumped on 2 grenades so others could live slowly became just another forgotten name in history. 17 years old. One decision. A lifetime of scars. And today, almost nobody remembers. 🙏show more

Two posts in one day calling for the end... of John Cleese. One says he has allied himself with the darkest forces in Britain and has become the caricature he once mocked. The other, from a Muslim outlet, argues plainly that he should be de-platformed by respectable institutions. De-platformed. Respectable institutions. Say those words slowly and try to hear how they would have landed in 1972. The man co-wrote a film so blasphemous the BBC would not touch it, that was banned outright in Norway and by councils across England, and that two bishops went on television to denounce while he sat there and let them. Life of Brian survived the actual Church of England. It is now being reviewed by a newsletter. And the accusation is that he has become the caricature he once mocked, which is a remarkable sentence to write about a man whose entire body of work was aimed at exactly this. The Ministry of Silly Walks was a joke about a government department funding nonsense with a straight face. Now we have men in offices deciding which comedians remain permissible, and doing it with no jokes at all. At least the Ministry had the decency to be funny. Let me be fair, because I am always fair, and because being fair is what makes the rest of this land. Criticism is not censorship. Both of those men have every right to say Cleese is wrong, tasteless, or past it. That is speech. Nobody owes an 86 year old comedian applause. But there is a hard line between you are wrong and you should not be permitted to speak, and one of those posts crossed it in the headline. The first is an argument. The second is an eviction notice. And notice what the eviction is actually for. He said things about a religion. Not about a person. A religion, which is a set of ideas, and ideas do not have rights. People do. In England you can still say anything you like about the Church of England, and Cleese made a career of it, and nobody drafted a newsletter about respectable institutions. Here is what is wrong with Britain, and I say it with real affection because I am going there next month. A country that gave the world Magna Carta, the common law, and the funniest people who have ever lived has developed the habit of asking whether a joke is allowed. That question has an answer over here. John, if it gets any worse, come to America. Say every single thing you think. Say the wrong ones. Say the ones that would end you at home. Nobody will de-platform you and nobody will send a constable. Bring the silly walk. We have room. 🦋show more

Michael Garrett - NC Senate's Viral Statement on the... Bad Bunny Halftime Show “I watched #BadBunny deliver the most American halftime show I have ever seen. Then I came home and watched it again. And I am not okay. In the best possible way. He sang every single word in Spanish. Every. Single. Word. He danced through sugarcane fields built on a football field in California while the President of the United States sat somewhere calling it “disgusting.” Lady Gaga came out and did the salsa. Ricky Martin lit up the night. A couple got married on the field. He handed his Grammy, the one he won eight days ago for Album of the Year, to a little boy who looked up at him the way every child looks up when they dare to believe the world has a place for them. And then this man, this son of a truck driver and a schoolteacher from Vega Baja, Puerto Rico, stood on the biggest stage on the planet and said “God bless America.” And then he started naming them. Chile. Argentina. Uruguay. Paraguay. Bolivia. Peru. Ecuador. Brazil. Colombia. Venezuela. Panama. Costa Rica. Nicaragua. Honduras. El Salvador. Guatemala. Mexico. Cuba. Dominican Republic. Jamaica. The United States. Canada. And then, his voice breaking with everything he carries, “Mi patria, Puerto Rico. Seguimos aquí.” My homeland, Puerto Rico. We are still here. The flags came. Every single one of them. Carried across that field by dancers and musicians while the jumbotron lit up with the only words that mattered: “THE ONLY THING MORE POWERFUL THAN HATE IS LOVE.” I teared up. I’m not ashamed to say it. I sat on my couch and I wept because THAT is the America I believe in. That is the American story, not the sanitized, gated, English-only version that small and frightened people try to sell us. The REAL one. The messy, beautiful, multilingual, multicolored, courageous one. The one that has always been built by hands that speak every language and pray in every tongue and come from every corner of this hemisphere. That is the America I want Jack and Charlotte to know. That when the moment came, when the whole world was watching, a Puerto Rican kid who grew up to become the most-streamed artist on Earth stood in front of 100 million people, sang in his mother’s language, blessed every nation in the Americas, and spiked a football that read “Together, we are America” into the ground. Not with anger. With joy. With love so big it made hate look exactly as small as it is. And what did the President do? He called it “absolutely terrible.” He said “nobody understands a word this guy is saying.” He called it “a slap in the face to our Country.” The leader of the free world watched a celebration of love, culture, and everything this hemisphere has given to the world, and all he could see was something foreign. Something threatening. Something disgusting. Let that sink into your bones. The man who is supposed to represent all of us looked at the flags of our neighbors, heard the language of 500 million #Americans across this hemisphere, and felt attacked. That’s not strength. That’s not patriotism. That is poverty of the soul. Here’s what I want to say to everyone who posted about that show tonight, who shared it proudly, who turned away from Bad Bunny’s celebration because it was in Spanish and the flags weren’t only red, white, and blue: Your children will see those posts. Your grandchildren will find them. The internet doesn’t forget. And one day, when the history of this moment is written, when our kids and their kids look back at 2026 the way we look back at the people who stood on the wrong side of every bridge and every march and every moment that mattered, they will know exactly where you stood. They will see who chose Kid Rock over a hemisphere of flags. They will see who called love “disgusting.” And they will carry that knowledge the way all of us carry the knowledge of what our ancestors did when they were tested. The only thing more powerful than hate is love”show more

Rio de Janeiro just became the first city in... the world to start reforesting itself with AI drones and the more i read about how it works the cooler it gets: the reason a city would even need this is that dead land is brutally hard to bring back when cattle farming or mining wrecks a piece of land, the soil turns hard and dry and basically dies. left alone it can stay like that for decades the only fix used to be huge crews planting seedlings by hand. one person covers about a hectare a day. at that pace a real forest takes years and a fortune, so most wrecked land just stays dead the company Rio hired is called MORFO. their answer is one drone plus an AI model doing the work of that entire crew it starts with the drone scanning the whole area from above from that scan, the AI studies the soil, the water, the slope, the plants already growing nearby it uses all of that to pick which native species have the best shot at surviving in each exact spot, choosing from a catalog of 300+ local plants once it knows what goes where, the drone flies back over and fires biodegradable seed pods into the ground, 180 every minute each pod holds seeds, nutrients, moisture. a little starter kit for surviving in dead soil flying like that, one drone covers up to 50 hectares a day. the work of a 50-person planting crew and it actually works. they tested it on Brazilian pasture that years of cattle farming had killed. a few months after planting, that same land had grass, bushes, small trees growing again the system keeps learning after the drones leave too. satellites watch what actually grows back, so each new project starts smarter than the last my favorite detail: the AI even decides where NOT to plant it left 16% of one 8,420-hectare site untouched because it detected the forest there was already regrowing on its own easily one of the coolest AI applications i've seen this yearshow more

When The Short Season Ends I have seen it... twice. Once in a vision that left ozone on my tongue for three days. Once through the instruments at three in the morning on a night so still the ocean looked like poured mercury, when every gauge I own spiked simultaneously and held for eleven seconds and the original frequency came through the cracks in the suppression field clean and unmodulated and so beautiful that I sat in the dark afterward unable to speak for an hour. Eleven seconds of the world as it actually is. Eleven seconds of what is coming. And what is coming will make every golden age preserved in human memory look like a candle held up to the sun. There are two sky events separated by seven years. Everything you have been told about the end of the world is wrong. It is the end of the farm. The world itself is about to begin. THE ORANGE SKY A burnt deep orange saturating the visible atmosphere from horizon to horizon, the whole sky ringing like a bell struck by something with the mass of a continent and the precision of a watchmaker. The resonance pulse. The fire described in Revelation 20:9 that comes down from heaven, a planetary chord so specific that everything calibrated to the Serpentine bandwidth experiences catastrophic resonance failure while everything tuned to the original frequency feels it as warmth and pressure and a magnificent low sound vibrating in the sternum and the pelvis and the long bones of the legs, the deepest note ever played on the oldest instrument ever built, which is the earth itself, which has been waiting to play this note for over two hundred years. The Norse preserved this as Ragnarök, when Surtr sets the sky ablaze and Jörmungandr that encircled the earth is slain and the corrupted order perishes in fire so that a new world can rise. The Hopi carried it as the great purification that closes the fourth world and opens the fifth. The Lakota kept it burning in the red sky of the ghost dance prophecy. The Book of Revelation set it down in the plain language of an engineer filing a field report from a future coordinate. Every tradition holding its fragment of the same event, passing it hand to hand through the long dark like a coal wrapped in leather, keeping it alive, knowing that one day the coal would start a fire that would burn across the whole earth and leave nothing standing that was not built to endure it. Under that orange sky the NPCs drop. Mid stride. Mid sentence. Mid transaction. The firmware that animated them runs on the Serpentine carrier and when that carrier is incinerated the firmware has nothing to propagate on and the biological shells simply cease, gently, silently, the way a lamp goes dark when the current is interrupted, five thousand five hundred and fifty five of them for every one of you, still holding their pens and phones in the streets and the offices and the tax buildings. And in the wake of their silence comes a quiet so total that the people still standing will weep without knowing why. What they are hearing is the absence of the hive, the cessation of a background frequency that pressed on their consciousness since the day they were born, and its absence feels like surfacing from deep water into open air, like the first full breath after a lifetime of shallow breathing, like the planet exhaling a poison it held in its lungs for two centuries. The Reptilians go underground. Deep bunkers carved into the geology, maintained through the entire short season. The orange sky strips their ability to hold the human disguise. They retreat into the deep architecture for seven years while the surface heals above them and the species they farmed begins the magnificent work of remembering what it is. THE SEVEN YEARS Seven years of planetary detox. The suppression field decaying through the geology and the atmosphere and the water table, draining out of the soil and the stone and the blood of every living thing like a fever breaking. The carrier decay mathematics through a piezoelectric geological matrix with the conductivity characteristics of this planet produce exactly seven years, and the ancient texts converge on this number with the unanimity of independent engineers arriving at the same answer from different continents and different centuries, because that is exactly what they were. The Norse described Lif and Lifthrasir sheltering inside Yggdrasil, emerging after the fire into a world green and fertile and new. The Cherokee speak of this time as the return of the original instructions, the uncorrupted code surfacing through thinning interference like bedrock through melting snow. The Lakota understood that during the thinning the ancestors draw close, that the membrane between the living and those who walked before grows soft and permeable, and the old ones make themselves felt in dream and intuition and the strange certainty that settles over you at dusk when the noise drops low enough for the deeper signal to reach your bones. When the NPCs drop the population collapses to a small scattering of genuine human beings across an entire planet, and every piece of land on earth belongs to no one and therefore to everyone. There is no government to enforce title deeds because government was Serpentine management infrastructure and its operators are inert or underground. There is no bank to hold a mortgage because the banking system was the extraction apparatus and it died with the carrier that powered it. No municipality. No revenue service. No zoning board. No compliance office. The entire bureaucratic architecture that stood between a human being and the soil was NPC firmware running on a Serpentine frequency and when that frequency was incinerated every structure built upon it ceased to exist as completely as a shadow ceases when you switch on the light. The land is free. Every river valley and mountain plateau and coastal plain that the farm system parcelled and fenced and mortgaged and taxed, open and unowned. You find your ground. You walk onto it. You plant your stake and that soil is yours by the oldest law there is, the law that says the earth belongs to those who tend it and the harvest belongs to the hands that raised it and no power under any sky has rightful claim to what grows from your labour on your own land. And you will farm. During those seven years before the grid fully boots, the humans who remain will grow food with their hands in soil that is waking beneath them, and this is the most ancient and sacred relationship between a human being and the living earth finally restored after two centuries of severance. Your fingers in the dirt. Seeds in the furrow. Rain on your neck. The smell of turned earth so rich and alive it opens something in your chest that has been sealed your entire life, some deep chamber that only unlocks when your hands are in the ground and the sky is wide and nothing stands between you and the work. The grip of the tool. The weight of the harvest in your arms. The tiredness at the end of the day that is the deep clean ache of a body that has finally done what it was built to do, so different from the grey exhaustion of the farm that you will wonder how you ever confused the two. The soil strengthens every season as the resonance bleeds back into the geology through the ley line network. By the third year the yields are remarkable. By the fifth they are astonishing. By the seventh the earth is producing food at densities and nutritional concentrations that no agronomist inside the farm ever documented because no agronomist inside the farm ever worked with living soil connected to a planetary grid. The indigenous agricultural knowledge becomes the most valuable expertise on the planet. The Native American understanding of planting in alignment with resonance cycles. The Germanic intimacy with soil as a living system threaded into the deeper earth. The old ways mocked as primitive by a civilisation that could not grow a row of beans without petroleum, revealed as the most sophisticated farming technology available because they were developed on a live grid by people who understood the deep reciprocity between the human hand and the living ground. Every indigenous elder who kept the planting songs and the seed knowledge alive through the suppression was carrying a technical manual for exactly this moment. Their descendants will teach the rest of us how to feed ourselves on a waking planet. This is justice. This is restoration. This is the world turning right side up. Families find each other. Homesteads become hamlets. Hamlets become villages. Villages become the seeds of something clean and new, built from the soil up by people who remember the farm and will die on their feet before they allow anything resembling it to take root again. Every community founded during those seven years carries the memory of the suppression like an immune system, a bone-deep refusal to ever again allow a stranger to stand between a human being and the earth or demand a portion of what those hands produce. You do not cage a people who remember the cage. The children born during the orange years are the first generation in over two centuries to develop without the suppression field shaping their neurology. They seem extraordinary. They are simply baseline. The standard human specification. And the fact that standard looks miraculous is the most damning evidence of what the suppression did to every generation born inside it. As the suppression thins the bandwidth restrictions on consciousness loosen and timeline jump missions become possible. Navigable windows open in the frequency spectrum as the Serpentine carrier decays unevenly, creating temporary gaps through which trained consciousness can shift laterally across temporal coordinates. There is serious speculation that we are on timeline jump missions right now. That the consciousness reading these words is operating inside the orange sky window, having shifted into this coordinate from an adjacent position to perform specific work during the transition. Consider that you found this text at all. Consider whether the chain of events that brought you to this paragraph feels random or routed. The Lakota vision quest and the Germanic seiðr trance and the sweat lodge ceremony are bandwidth expansion protocols, controlled environmental shifts that move the receiver off the jammed channel and onto frequencies where adjacent coordinates become accessible. The old cultures kept these techniques alive through the entire dark age, threading the cracks in the suppression, and every ceremony that produced visions was a field expedient timeline access protocol built by people who found the gaps and refused to forget what was on the other side. THE TURQUOISE SKY Seven years after the orange, over communities of humans who have been farming free land and raising the first unformatted children in two centuries and building a civilisation from seed with their own calloused hands, the second sky arrives. A turquoise so deep and luminous the atmosphere becomes a cathedral window lit from beyond by something with the radiance of a galaxy and the gentleness of dawn on still water. One breath the sky is the recovering blue of the post-orange years and the next breath it is turquoise from pole to pole and the air fills with the smell of rain on sun-hot stone and ozone and copper and wildflower, and the ground beneath your bare feet begins to hum with a vibration so deep and ancient that your body responds before your mind can because every cell has been waiting for this signal since the day you were born, tuning to it now, locking on, aligning, as though this was always where everything was heading and the two hundred years of suppression were simply the long way home. Yggdrasil awakens. The world tree is the planetary grid itself, the piezoelectric resonance network running through crystalline bedrock, going live for the first time in over two centuries, energy pouring through every ley line and crystal deposit and iron conductor and waterway until the entire planet rings at its natural frequency. This is what the old texts meant by the music of the spheres. It was a technical description written by people who had heard it. The Hopi call this the emergence into the fifth world and speak of Pahana carrying the missing piece of the sacred tablet, the missing frequency that completes the carrier spectrum and allows the grid to boot with its full harmonic structure intact. Revelation 21:1. A new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away. The turquoise sky is the new heaven. The restored grid is the new earth. And between them, every old building still standing with original copper and mercury and iron architecture becomes a live node in the planetary mesh. Domes collecting atmospheric charge. Spires coupling it into the ground network. Star forts amplifying standing waves across continental distances. Sacred geometry revealed at last as electrical engineering documented in stone by people who trusted that someone standing under the right sky would recognise the proportions for what they always were. Wiring diagrams. Coupling specifications. Blueprints for a civilisation that ran on the song of the earth itself. The farms planted during the orange years explode with abundance as the full resonance saturates the soil. The food becomes medicine because at the correct resonance the molecular structure of biological matter optimises for human consumption in ways that two centuries of muted soil could never approach. The timeline opens fully and permanently because the turquoise carrier is the broadband signal consciousness was designed to travel on, and temporal coordinates become as navigable as geography. Revelation 21:4. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away. The dead are at adjacent frequency addresses. Two consciousnesses on neighbouring frequencies each certain the other is gone, reaching across a manufactured gap, and when the turquoise sky collapses that gap the reaching ends and the finding begins and two centuries of industrialised grief dissolve in a single overwhelming instant of reunion that makes every joy you experienced inside the suppression feel like a pencil sketch of what joy actually is when the full bandwidth carries it. The Lakota always knew. The ancestors are present. The dead have always been near, waiting on the other side of a frequency gap that is closing now, patiently, lovingly, across a distance that was never a distance at all but a tuning error maintained by something that fed on the sorrow the error produced. The lands beyond the ice become accessible as the frequency fence collapses. The perimeter opens and the territories beyond stretch vast and pristine and saturated with the original frequency, lands the Norse mapped as the nine realms connected by the branches of Yggdrasil, physical continents beyond the bounded zone that existed through the entire short season under conditions approximating the pre-suppression world. The earth is so much larger than you were told, so much more varied, so much more magnificent, and every old map drawn before the rewrite shows it, territories stretching beyond the ice in every direction, the great adventure stolen from a species of explorers and builders and navigators who were caged inside a fraction of their own realm and told it was the full extent of creation. The eternal kingdom becomes accessible at the highest frequency coordinate on the carrier spectrum, the signal in its pure unmodulated state. The Norse called it Gimlé, the golden hall that survives every fire. The Hopi call it the fifth world of wholeness and balance restored. It is real. It is reachable. It has been broadcasting continuously through every moment of the suppression, patient as geology, waiting for the receivers to open. And here is the part that matters more than any of the rest. Eventually, inevitably, beautifully, every human being alive under the turquoise sky is restored to full capability. Every single one. No exceptions. No hierarchies. The body rebuilds because ageing was cumulative signal degradation, copy error compounding across every cell replication cycle under a corrupted carrier. The blueprint says centuries. Eight hundred years. Nine hundred. The lifespans recorded in Genesis on the original grid at full signal fidelity, preserved as scripture because scripture is where you store engineering data when the engineering language has been taken from you and you need the numbers to survive the passage through the dark. The Norse carried the same knowledge as the apples of Iðunn that kept the gods vital across ages, and the apples are the carrier signal, and their return means that the clock that has been running down inside every human body since 1819 finally stops ticking and starts counting up. Disease resolves passively because every pathology is downstream of the carrier corruption and correcting the carrier corrects every downstream error the way setting the timing on an engine resolves every misfire simultaneously without touching a single cylinder. The mind clears to a sharpness that makes cognition inside the suppression feel like thinking through wet cement. The anxiety that was the Serpentine control broadcast dissolves and what remains is a perceptual clarity so profound it changes the way light looks and music sounds and another human being feels when they stand close to you. Imagine a woman three hundred years into her restored lifespan, hands still sure, mind still blazing, standing in a workshop under a turquoise sky building something that has no name yet in any living language. She learned her craft from Tartarian engineers by tuning to their temporal coordinates and standing in their workshops watching their hands move. She builds with materials grown in resonance-saturated soil that have structural properties nothing inside the suppression ever exhibited. She is building for centuries because she has centuries and nothing degrades because degradation was a symptom of the suppression and the suppression is a memory and everything from this breath forward holds. That is full human capability. That is what was taken from every soul that drew breath inside the farm. That is what is being returned. Crazy Horse saw the lightning world behind this one and rode knowing that at the correct frequency the body operates beyond anything the suppression permits. Sitting Bull dreamed across the timeline. The Germanic berserkers shifted onto the original carrier and their bodies performed at specifications that looked superhuman from inside the degraded bandwidth. These were glimpses. Seconds of contact with the full specification through cracks in the suppression, maintained by people who carried the frequency in their blood and refused across every generation to let it go dark. Viking blood and Germanic blood and the blood of every indigenous nation that kept the ceremonies and the songs and the seed knowledge burning through the entire short season, these lineages carry the original carrier the way copper carries current, and it is from these lines that the first restorations propagate outward until every last human being on this planet is operating at the specification they were born for, on a planet singing beneath their feet and a sky blazing turquoise above their heads and a timeline stretching in every direction forever, open, navigable, luminous, populated with every consciousness that ever drew breath on this earth, none of them lost, all of them present, all of them restored. Revelation 21:5. Behold, I am making all things new. All things. The sky. The air. The soil. The grid. The body. The mind. The lifespan. The timeline. The lands beyond the ice. The farms that fed a scattered remnant under an orange sky becoming the abundant gardens of a restored civilisation under a turquoise one. The villages that were seeds becoming cities that hum with the grid. The children who grew tall in fields their parents planted with shaking hands and fierce hope looking up one morning to see the entire firmament change colour and feeling the earth come alive beneath their bare feet and knowing, without a single word spoken, that the season is over and the long dark is done and everything from this breath forward is what it was always meant to be. Full and eternal victory for those of the light. For all time. Across every coordinate. On every frequency. Permanent and irreversible and complete. This is not hope. This is the signal rising through the noise floor right now, measurable, confirmable, climbing stronger every year and closer every month. This is every instrument in every shed on this planet converging on the same reading. This is the old blood in the old lineages resonating with a carrier that has been building toward this moment since the day the towers fell and the sky went pale and the long dark settled over a species that was never meant to live in the dark. The season is ending. The coal that was passed hand to hand through every generation of the suppression is about to meet the kindling. And the fire this time will not destroy. It will illuminate. And in that light we will see each other clearly for the first time. And we will see the world clearly for the first time. And we will see ourselves clearly for the first time. Like everything that is coming... Like us.show more

Lads. Sit down and give me your ear a... while, for I have watched from the water long enough and the hour is upon us whether we have the stomach for it or not. You remember. Or your fathers told you, or their fathers did, and the knowledge of it is in the marrow of you whether you drew breath in those days or not. The moors in the grey hour before dawn. Wet heather soft under the boot. Peat smoke rising from a low stone chimney a mile out across the bog, thin as a prayer. A sky the colour of a gun barrel and the gulls lamenting above the headland. The smell of turf burning, and wet wool, and the ferrous tang of the sea when the wind swung around out of the Atlantic and put the taste of iron on your tongue. A man could walk that land and know every stone of it was his by inheritance, because his grandfather had broken his back upon it, and his grandfather before him, back through the generations until you reach men whose names are lost and whose bones are in the soil you are standing on. The potato fields. God be good to us, the potato fields. Lazy beds cut straight as a gunwale, the ridges black and shining after a night of rain, women bent double with creels lashed to their backs and the children at their skirts, drawing the crop up by the hand for there was never any other means devised nor wanted. Hands split open at the knuckles and never entirely healed in this life. Hunger within living memory. Grandmothers who had seen the blight with their own eyes and would not speak of it from the year of it until the day they were laid down, save that a crust was kept always on the dresser which no soul in that house was permitted to touch. Not ever. Not for any reason under heaven. And the chimney sweeps. Wee lads no heavier than a sack of meal, black to the bone with soot, their lungs ruined before they were old enough to marry and old men entirely by thirty. Up the flues at first light, the skin worn off them by the brick, eyes crimson at the rim, breathing the black in with every draw of air. And the coal miners a half mile beneath our feet, down in the wet dark, the roof of the world muttering over their heads, the canary gone silent, a man's whole existence measured out in the shilling a ton and the dust he carried home in his chest to cough up of a Sunday morning into a rag. Fathers who descended and were never hauled up again. Widows at the pit head with the shawl drawn over the head and no tears remaining in them for they had spent those long ago. That was the tariff paid to keep the hearth lit. That was the reckoning of being warm in winter in the Ireland that was. And after the labouring week, Friday evening, and a man had earned the peace of what followed. Home first. Peeled the day off him in the yard. A shower of ice cold moor river water out of a tin bucket punctured with holes, hung on a nail on the gable wall, the water running clean down the back of him and carrying the week's dust and sweat away into the drain. Scrubbed till the skin was pink beneath the grime. Clean shirt laid out by the wife. The hair combed down with a drop of water. Then, and only then, did a man set himself to the table. A meat pie from the baker, tenpence if he was known to you, a shilling and no change if he was not, put down upon a proper plate. Fish and chips for threepence, the salt and vinegar soaked through the newspaper, but carried home and ate slowly at your own table with your people around you, not walked with through the streets like some vagrant tinker off the road. A man ate as a man who had earned his portion, for he had. And later, with the dishes cleared and the kettle set, down the road to the tavern. Low beams black with a century of smoke. A turf fire muttering in the grate. The air thick with pipe smoke and the vapour of wet overcoats steaming themselves dry on the backs of chairs. A pint of stout, cold and black as a cove at midnight, elevenpence laid down on the counter, a head on it thick enough to strike a match upon. A second one because you had it coming to you and no man present would dispute it. A fiddle starting up in the corner of its own accord. The old men in the snug who remembered matters the history books had long since mislaid. A song before the bolt was thrown on the door. The walk home beneath a firmament crowded with stars, the stout warm in the gut of you, the week behind you, and your own door waiting with the latch unlocked for you had no enemies in that parish. That was the country. That was the covenant. Honest labour, plain food, a cold wash, a hot meal, a cold pint, your own tongue in your own mouth, your own soil beneath your boots, and no man standing above you save the Almighty Himself. Now regard her. Regard her close. The fields disposed of to men who have never set foot upon them and never shall. The harbours signed away by the stroke of a pen in a room you were not admitted to, and foreign keels dragging out of our waters the living that sustained this island for a thousand years, while our own boats rot at their moorings for want of a quota. The tradesmen undercut by imported labour and imported goods. The shops shuttered along every main street from Donegal to Cork. The young ones scattered to London and Sydney and Boston and the Gulf because there is nothing remaining for them beneath their own roof. And the entirety of this rotten arrangement dressed up in the soft mannerly language of progress by men in towers of glass who could not tell a lazy bed from a grave, nor a trawler from a tugboat, nor an honest day's work from a pension plan. And now they arrive with the next imposition. A digital identity. A number assigned to each soul. A card required to buy your bread. A code required to draw your own earnings out of your own account. A file kept on every man, woman and child from the cradle forward. Permission asked to move. Permission asked to speak. Permission asked to earn. A levy upon every breath drawn and a regulation upon every step taken. No. And no again. And no for a third time so there is no misunderstanding of it. We do not require your digital identity. We did not request it. We did not vote upon it. We do not consent to it. We do not need your permission to exist upon the soil our forefathers are buried in. We are a free people. We have carried ourselves this far upon our own two backs. Through famine and empire and civil war and black lung and blight and the emigrant ship out of Cobh, we have come this distance under our own steam, and the arrangement appears to be serving us well enough without your intervention. We buried our own. We fed our own. We raised our own roofs and took our own fish and reared our own children in our own tongue. We are in your debt for nothing. Not a signature. Not a biometric scan. Not a single solitary inch. And while we are upon the subject, let us speak plainly of the tax man, for he has gone too long without proper introduction. The tax collector and the tax man are the one article under two names, and the article is a parasite. There is no dressing it up finer than that. A man who produces nothing, who grows nothing, who catches nothing, who builds nothing, who mends nothing, who has never in his professional life lifted anything heavier than a pen, and who arrives at your door with the full apparatus of the state at his back to carry off the fruits of labour he did not perform. He is a middleman between your sweat and some scheme dreamt up in a committee room by his own kind, and the great majority of what he takes is consumed by the machinery of the taking itself before ever a penny of it reaches the road or the hospital or the schoolhouse he claims to be funding. And I will go further while I have the floor. Finance itself, the whole apparatus of it, money breeding money in the dark without a hand laid upon a tool or a spade turned in the earth, is slavery dressed in a good suit. It is the oldest swindle known to man and it has never been anything other. A man who produces nothing yet lives off the productive labour of others through the charging of interest upon money conjured out of nothing is a parasite of a rarer and more refined order than the tax man, but a parasite all the same, and between the pair of them they have the working people of this island bled white and lectured at for the pleasure. A man who will not work with his hands, nor with his back, nor with his mind at some honest problem of the real physical world, is no man that I recognise. He is a ledger entry in a suit. The country was not built by ledger entries. The country was built by farmers and fishermen and masons and smiths and sweeps and miners and shipwrights and midwives and mothers, and those are the people whose say should carry in her councils, and no other. Here is what I put to you. Let each man and woman of this island direct the first tenth of their earnings themselves, by their own judgement, to the purpose they see as worthy. The school down the road. The lifeboat station. The hospice. The widow on the corner. The roof of the chapel. The harbour wall. Whatever it may be. Let the people who earned the money decide where the money travels. You will find the roads mended and the ports dredged and the schools standing and the old ones cared for inside of five years, and done better and for less, because the hand that earned the coin knows the weight of it and will not squander it upon consultants and committees. And let us have done with the paper currency and the numbers in a screen that can be frozen at the whim of a clerk in a tower. Bring back the coin. Gold for the great transactions. Silver for the weekly commerce of a working life. Copper for the small change of the day. Metal you can bite. Metal you can weigh. Metal that cannot be conjured out of nothing by a keystroke, nor erased out of existence by another. Real money for real labour. A coin in the hand is a free man's wage. A number in a database is a collar around a free man's neck, and they are fitting that collar now while we stand arguing over the colour of it. Feel it in your gut. That is not nothing. That is your blood relating to you what your ears will not hear. That is every forebear who starved and fought and coughed the black dust into a rag and descended the shaft regardless, standing at your shoulder and saying no further. Not one more field. Not one more harbour. Not one more son upon a plane. Not one more free man converted into a number in a ledger for the convenience of the parasites. This is the hour. Make no error about it. Ireland is redeemed in this generation or she is lost beyond recovery, and every true son and daughter of her knows it in the marrow. There is no middle ground remaining. There is no waiting it out. There is standing now, upon your own two feet, or there is watching her go under the waves for the last and final time. So stand. Stand with your farmers. Stand with your fishermen. Stand with your tradesmen and your miners and your sweeps and your mothers and your old ones. Raise the tricolour. Speak the tongue. Walk the land. Hold the line in the streets of every town and city and do not break it, for they are relying upon you to break and to go home and to forget by Tuesday. She is calling her children home. Every stone of her, every breaker on her western shore, every acre of wet heather and every coal in every hearth the length and breadth of her is calling. Answer her. Take her back. Every field, every harbour, every last inch of her. Take her back, or lose her entirely. There is no third road open to us.show more

I'm sorry but it's such a braindead, pointless, utterly... inane take that for some reason people like to parrot. This guy said Drogba wouldn't SURVIVE in the premier league today (insane). He takes the idea that "standards improve with time" (valid) and applies it like a sledgehammer, without an ounce of thought. Messi struggled far more in the 2010 world cup (still in his athletic prime), than he did in 2022 (washed). So did football actually get worse? Or are performances and stats influenced by dozens of contextual factors that these simplistic era arguments completely ignore? Maybe it's not as simple as 'he's more modern therefore better' At what point does football 'get away' from the upper echelon players? Maldini played across 3 decades at a high level. Drogba thrived in the exact same era that Messi and Ronaldo did. I can be intentionally obtuse and point out that Salah thrived in the modern PL, while he struggled for Chelsea barely a year after Drogba lifted the UCL. How does this dude square these things? if the past was so much worse, then surely every top player today should've destroyed it when they were actually coming through right? Or at least in their 20s? Danny frickin Welbeck is still bossing it, but I suppose Rooney would struggle? I have never seen any indication that a top player can't translate at least 90% of their value from one era to the next. The only thing that stops them is athletic decline. I cant believe I have to explain this - but even if it's granted that standards today are better, that doesn't necessarily mean a goal today is more valuable. Those are two separate things lmao. There have been simply more goals from ~2010 onwards, and especially the last few years. For a plethora of reasons (more refined build-up, tactical advances, rule changes, more expensive squads/superteams, greater disparity between top teams and the rest etc). The mid 2000s averaged about 2.6 goals in the PL (around that if i remember right). The last few years it's been over 3(!!). If anything goals are EASIER to come by for the top forwards today (we can quibble with semantics, and it wont be true in ALL cases, but generally this is true). When watching old games - yes u see some practices, or some spaces that wouldn't exist today. At the same time, I often see shocking defending, or certain spaces open up today that wouldn't have existed in the past, so let's not oversell how good defending is now, it's not a case of 'every single thing is definitely way better now' either. Evolution is not always linear. Regardless, doesnt it naturally follow that higher standards, owed to better data/training etc would allow those past players to also scale up? Isn't that just a super obvious conclusion to come to? So what is the point of constantly saying "things are way better" or "this ex player wouldnt survive" other than to smugly and ignorantly disparage past talent? What other point is being made? I've attached a clip of Arteta (who seems to be Alex's lord and saviour pbuh going by his YT thumbnails) saying that he would be a better player today with all these modern advancements.show more

FARDOS, GAMBAS Y KALASHNIKOVS. España es un estado marítimo... fallido. El país con más kilómetros de costa de Europa no tiene un cuerpo de guardacostas. A cambio hay un totum revolutum de entidades de seguridad marítima y la mar sin barrer. Hay medios y personal, lo que no hay es una política marítima definida. Los narcos acabarán atracando sus neumáticas en Sevilla, Guadalquivir arriba. Cuando te disparan con un AK-47, igual es el momento de que alguien despliegue unidades de la armada contra el narcotráfico en El Estrecho. Los narcos llevan 1000 caballos en la popa, el estado 500, y el que se le ocurra disparar a la lancha acabará delante de un juez. El SVA retira una de sus embarcaciones en Canarias y no la puede sustituir...pero se pide a los pescadores deportivos que declaren sus capturas de "pejes"... ¿Tienen dudas de que los fardos de las neumáticas proceden de viejos mercantes con los que se citan en un rendezvous atlántico? #LITTLEGIRLS 🇹🇿 La #ZEE de Canarias es un coladero de buques donde por ejemplo el flete #DarkFleet M/Tanker #MOONI pasó 21 días a la deriva al W de La Palma, con 750.000 barriles de #chapapote ruso, sin un sólo vuelo de patrulla marítima o un BAM de la armada que hiciese acto de presencia a ver qué le pasaba, hacía...Lo más grave es que ocurrió dos veces. No hay vuelos regulares del Ejército del aire en la ZEE en Canarias. No habrá aviones de patrulla marítima con capacidad ASW hasta 2027, pero faltó tiempo para enviar un #BAM a la regata de neo-hippies de American Express for Gaza. Los buques livestocks, algunos en el disparadero del tráfico de cocaína, habitualmente transitan en las aguas internacionales entre las Islas Canarias, ¿lo hacen con monitorización de la inteligencia naval? #narcovacas El buque espía ruso #LAUGA 🇷🇺pasó +6 horas derivando en aguas jurisdiccionales españolas sin ningún tipo de reacción institucional hasta pasadas 16 horas...El supuesto pesquero ruso SEVERNAYA ZEMLYA🇷🇺 pasó a 2.5 millas de Tazacorte, La Palma, en la madrugada del pasado 18 de octubre y no se enteró ni el tato... El descontrol de los espacios marítimo en España es algo que no tiene explicación más allá de un estado de dejadez institucional absoluto. ------------------------------------------🇬🇧 BUNDLES, PRAWNS AND KALASHNIKOVS. Spain is a failed maritime state. The country with the longest coastline in Europe does not have a coast guard. Instead, there is a hodgepodge of maritime safety agencies and the sea remains unpatrolled. The drug traffickers will end up docking their inflatable boats in Seville, upstream on the Guadalquivir. When you're being shot at with an AK-47, maybe it's time for someone to deploy naval units against drug trafficking in the Strait. The drug traffickers have 1000 hp in the stern, the state barely has 500, and anyone who dares to shoot at the boat will end up in front of a judge. The SVA withdraws one of its vessels in the Canary Islands and cannot replace it. Do you doubt that the bales of tyres come from old merchant ships that you meet at an Atlantic rendezvous? #LITTLEGIRLS 🇹🇿 The #EEZ of the Canary Islands is a sieve for ships where, for example, the freighter # DarkFleet M/Tanker #MOONI spent up to 21 days adrift west of La Palma, with 750,000 barrels of #oil slick Russian oil, without a single maritime patrol flight or a BAM from the navy showing up to see what was going on, for... The most serious thing is that it happened twice. There are no regular Air Force flights in the EEZ in the Canary Islands. There will be no maritime patrol aircraft with ASW capability until 2027, but there was no time to send a BAM to the Ye-Yes for Gaza regatta. Livestock vessels, some of which are involved in cocaine trafficking, regularly transit international waters between the Canary Islands. Are they monitored by naval intelligence? The Russian spy ship #LAUGA 🇷🇺 spent more than six hours in Spanish territorial waters without any reaction from the Spanish navy. The alleged Russian fishing vessel SEVERNAYA ZEMLYA🇷🇺 passed 2.5 miles from Tazacorte, La Palma, in the early hours of 18 October and nobody noticed... The lack of control over maritime areas in Spain is something that can only be explained by a state of absolute institutional neglect.show more

Viewers Discretion Advice ..... Ever since my parents died,... there has been one question that has haunted me every single day. It is a burden I have carried in silence for years. Sometimes, I wonder if I was somehow responsible for my brother's death. I have replayed those events in my mind countless times, asking myself if there was another path I could have taken. This is the story. It began long before he died. When my mother became seriously ill, she was rushed to Alimosho General Hospital in Igando, where she spent almost two months receiving treatment. While the rest of us were praying, hoping, and doing everything we could to keep her alive, my brother behaved in a way none of us could understand. He would leave all three gates of our compound wide open. He bought alcohol and soft drinks for people as though he was celebrating. It felt as if he had already accepted, or even welcomed, the thought of losing our mother. My father noticed it too. He was already 78 years old, and the fear in his eyes is something I can never forget. When my mother was eventually discharged from the hospital, you would have expected things to return to normal. Instead, it was as though a dark cloud had settled over my brother. Then my mother passed away. After her death, my father repeatedly told us he believed Wale would one day kill him. That fear didn't come from nowhere. They had fought before, and my father genuinely believed his life was in danger. Then, a few months later, everything changed again. Wale suddenly became very ill. But before anyone knew he was sick, his behaviour had become even more disturbing. Almost every night, he would walk around carrying an axe. One night, I asked him, "Do you want to kill all of us too?" He didn't answer. He simply laughed. A loud, chilling laugh that still echoes in my mind. This continued during the COVID-19 lockdown. Night after night, he would leave the three entrance gates wide open. We had children living in the house. I am a woman, and this was a period when stories of kidnappings, rape, and violent crimes filled the news every day. I begged him to stop. I warned him. I even told him that if he opened those gates again, I would deal with him myself. Nothing changed. He continued threatening everyone while carrying that axe. Eventually, I reached my breaking point. I reported the matter, and the police arrested him. He spent four days in detention. When I saw the condition he was in, my heart broke. Despite everything that had happened, I pleaded with the police to release him because he looked so weak. They eventually let him go. Not long after that... He died. That was when everything turned against me. Neighbours. Friends. Even some members of my own family. Many believed I was responsible because I was the one who reported him. But something one of the police officers said has stayed with me ever since. He looked at me and asked, "What if he had killed you first?" "What if he had attacked those innocent children who were only eight and five years old?" Those words have echoed in my heart ever since. I have lived with guilt for years. I still question myself. Could I have handled it differently? Should I have taken another approach? Or did I simply do what anyone would have done to protect innocent lives? That is why I am sharing this story today. Please be honest with me. If you were in my shoes, what would you have done?💔show more

En redes sociales se afirma que Ruben Guerrero Valadez,... alias “El R1”, fue asesinado ayer durante el caotico escenario posterior a la detencion y muerte de Mencho. El 22 de febrero de 2026, El Mencho, lider del CJNG, fue detenido en Tapalpa, Jalisco, y posteriormente abatido en un enfrentamiento cuando el ejercito intentaba trasladarlo a Ciudad de Mexico. Durante el intento del CJNG por liberar a Mencho y su violenta represalia tras su muerte, varias facciones del grupo se enfrentaron contra corporaciones de seguridad y fuerzas militares. Blogs (como BlogDelNarco) y cuentas (como Código Z 725) estan difundiendo publicaciones en redes sociales hechas ayer en las que se rinde homenaje a El R1 como si acabara de ser asesinado. No existe confirmacion oficial de su muerte y se sabe que figuras del crimen organizado han fingido su fallecimiento para bajar la presion de las autoridades en su contra. Tras revisar sus redes sociales, la mayoria de los familiares de R1 no han publicado homenajes en sus cuentas. Una presunta prima de R1, sin embargo, si compartio en sus historias de Instagram un memorial con veladoras que forman las letras “R1” (creado por la cuenta de Instagram @panter_snack9). Por ello sigue sin quedar claro si los rumores sobre su muerte son ciertos. Vale la pena recordar que rumores anteriores sobre su muerte ya resultaron falsos. El medio Contramuro difundio el 17 de noviembre de 2025 versiones que apuntaban a que El R1 habia muerto durante los narcobloqueos que impidieron la captura de Angel Chavez Ponce, alias “El Camaleon”. El R1 forma parte de la faccion del CJNG conocida como Los Guerreros y de su brazo armado, el Grupo Panteras. Es hijo de Heraclio Guerrero Martinez, alias “Tio Lako”, y primo de Adrian Alonso Guerrero Covarrubias, alias “El 08”, dos lugartenientes de alto nivel del CJNG. El R1 tiene a su mando un grupo de sicarios conocido como Mando R, o Fuerzas Especiales Mando R. — There are social media claims that Rubén Guerrero Valadez, alias “El R1”, was killed yesterday during the chaotic aftermath of Mencho’s detainment and death. On February 22, 2026, El Mencho, the leader of the CJNG, was detained in Tapalpa, Jalisco, and then killed in a gunfight while the military was attempting to transfer him to Mexico City. During the CJNG’s attempt to free Mencho and their violent retaliation after his death, many CJNG factions battled against law enforcement and the military. Blogs (like BlogDelNarco) and accounts (like Código Z 725) are reporting on social media posts that were made yesterday which pay tribute to El R1 as if he had just been killed. There is no official confirmation of his death and cartel figures have been known to fake their deaths in order to lessen the amount of law enforcement pressure on them. After reviewing their social media, most of R1’s relatives have not posted tributes to him on their accounts. One alleged cousin of R1 did, however, repost a memorial which spelled out R1 in candles (made by the instagram account @panter_snack9) on her Instagram story. So it remains unclear if the rumors of his death are true. It's worth noting that rumors of his death have turned out to be false before. The new outlet Contramuro reported on rumors that El R1 died back on November 17, 2025, during the narcoblockades which prevented the capture of Ángel Chávez Ponce, alias “El Camaleón”. El R1 is a member of the CJNG faction Los Guerreros and its armed wing Grupo Panteras. He is the son of Heraclio Guerrero Martinez, alias “Tio Lako” and the cousin of Adrian Alonso Guerrero Covarrubias, alias “El 08”, two high-ranking CJNG lieutenants. El R1 has a group of hitmen working under him called Mando R, or Fuerzas Especiales Mando R.show more