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🇺🇸 ANDERSON COOPER CORRECTED FOR MISGENDERING AT SANDERS TOWN HALL While introducing civil rights attorney Grace Thomas, CNN's Cooper used "she/her" pronouns. Thomas corrected him: "It's They/Them pronouns, actually." Cooper: "Oh..." Source: Collin Rugg

Mario Nawfal

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346,474 次观看 • 1 年前 •via X (Twitter)

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This is Thomas. Navy veteran. Three deployments. He came home in 2019 but the nights never got easier. For five years, Thomas woke up screaming almost every night. Rarely slept more than ninety minutes at a stretch. His doctor recommended a trained service dog. The waitlist was two years long. The private training programs cost more than he made in three months. So Thomas went to his local shelter instead. He found Cooper. A four-year-old golden Lab mix. Returned twice. Notes in his file said he was "too clingy" and "overly attached to people." Thomas took him home on a Tuesday. That same night, Thomas had a nightmare. Cooper was asleep on the floor beside the bed. Somehow Cooper knew before Thomas fully woke up. Jumped onto the bed. Laid his entire body across Thomas's chest. All seventy-eight pounds of him. Thomas opened his eyes. Didn't scream. Just felt the weight. Felt Cooper breathing. Came back to the room instead of staying in the memory. He cried. Cooper stayed there until Thomas fell back asleep. Thomas set up a night vision camera the following week just to understand what was happening. He brought the footage to his VA counselor. She watched it twice. Then said quietly: "Thomas, what Cooper is doing has a clinical name. It's called deep pressure intervention. We spend months trying to train dogs to do exactly that. Cooper taught himself in one night." Cooper was returned for being too attached. That attachment is the only reason Thomas sleeps now. Some dogs aren't too much. They're just waiting for the right person to need exactly what they have.

This is Thomas. Navy veteran. Three deployments. He came home in 2019 but the nights never got easier. For five years, Thomas woke up screaming almost every night. Rarely slept more than ninety minutes at a stretch. His doctor recommended a trained service dog. The waitlist was two years long. The private training programs cost more than he made in three months. So Thomas went to his local shelter instead. He found Cooper. A four-year-old golden Lab mix. Returned twice. Notes in his file said he was "too clingy" and "overly attached to people." Thomas took him home on a Tuesday. That same night, Thomas had a nightmare. Cooper was asleep on the floor beside the bed. Somehow Cooper knew before Thomas fully woke up. Jumped onto the bed. Laid his entire body across Thomas's chest. All seventy-eight pounds of him. Thomas opened his eyes. Didn't scream. Just felt the weight. Felt Cooper breathing. Came back to the room instead of staying in the memory. He cried. Cooper stayed there until Thomas fell back asleep. Thomas set up a night vision camera the following week just to understand what was happening. He brought the footage to his VA counselor. She watched it twice. Then said quietly: "Thomas, what Cooper is doing has a clinical name. It's called deep pressure intervention. We spend months trying to train dogs to do exactly that. Cooper taught himself in one night." Cooper was returned for being too attached. That attachment is the only reason Thomas sleeps now. Some dogs aren't too much. They're just waiting for the right person to need exactly what they have.

Gabriele Corno

16,943 次观看 • 29 天前

A dog waits for you all its life. Cooper had been sleeping by the front door for weeks, and nobody in the house had the heart to move him. Every time a car slowed down outside, his ears came up. Every time someone walked up the sidewalk, he stood and waited like this might finally be the person he had been missing. Emma had been gone longer than anyone expected. Her parents told the neighbors she was doing better, because that was easier than explaining every hospital night, every test, and every morning when the house felt strange without her voice in it. Cooper didn't understand the words, but he understood that her room was empty and her backpack still smelled like her. Her mom played videos of Emma once or twice, thinking it might comfort him. Cooper would hear her laugh through the phone, tilt his head, and then hurry toward the stairs. After a few seconds, he'd come back confused and lie down near the door again. That afternoon, Emma's mom pulled into the driveway and helped her up the front steps. Emma still looked tired, and her bag hung a little heavy on her shoulder, but she was smiling before the door was even all the way open. Cooper froze. He stood in the hallway staring at her, tail moving slowly at first, like his body was waiting for his heart to catch up. Emma covered her mouth and started laughing through tears. "Oh, I missed you so much, Cooper." The sound of her voice did it. Cooper ran straight to her, paws sliding a little on the floor, then jumped up into her arms like he had been saving every bit of love for that one second. Emma caught him around the neck and held on, crying harder when he pressed his face against her shoulder and made that little whining sound dogs make when they're too happy to stay quiet. Her mom stayed by the door and let them have the moment. Cooper kept his paws on Emma's shoulders, his tail hitting the wall behind him, while she buried her face in his fur and whispered his name again. He didn't need to know where she had been or why everyone had been so worried. The only thing that mattered was that the door finally opened, and this time, Emma was standing there. Has your dog ever waited for someone like they knew they were coming home?

A dog waits for you all its life. Cooper had been sleeping by the front door for weeks, and nobody in the house had the heart to move him. Every time a car slowed down outside, his ears came up. Every time someone walked up the sidewalk, he stood and waited like this might finally be the person he had been missing. Emma had been gone longer than anyone expected. Her parents told the neighbors she was doing better, because that was easier than explaining every hospital night, every test, and every morning when the house felt strange without her voice in it. Cooper didn't understand the words, but he understood that her room was empty and her backpack still smelled like her. Her mom played videos of Emma once or twice, thinking it might comfort him. Cooper would hear her laugh through the phone, tilt his head, and then hurry toward the stairs. After a few seconds, he'd come back confused and lie down near the door again. That afternoon, Emma's mom pulled into the driveway and helped her up the front steps. Emma still looked tired, and her bag hung a little heavy on her shoulder, but she was smiling before the door was even all the way open. Cooper froze. He stood in the hallway staring at her, tail moving slowly at first, like his body was waiting for his heart to catch up. Emma covered her mouth and started laughing through tears. "Oh, I missed you so much, Cooper." The sound of her voice did it. Cooper ran straight to her, paws sliding a little on the floor, then jumped up into her arms like he had been saving every bit of love for that one second. Emma caught him around the neck and held on, crying harder when he pressed his face against her shoulder and made that little whining sound dogs make when they're too happy to stay quiet. Her mom stayed by the door and let them have the moment. Cooper kept his paws on Emma's shoulders, his tail hitting the wall behind him, while she buried her face in his fur and whispered his name again. He didn't need to know where she had been or why everyone had been so worried. The only thing that mattered was that the door finally opened, and this time, Emma was standing there. Has your dog ever waited for someone like they knew they were coming home?

Gabriele Corno

31,835 次观看 • 5 天前

‼️BOMBSHELL: Same Law Firm Harpole Uses AGAINST Candace Employs Ben Shapiro’s Brother-in-Law & Is OWNED By Trump DOJ Insider! 👀 The rabbit hole just got a lot deeper. If you were wondering why Brian Harpole’s lawsuit against Candace Owens felt like a coordinated strike, the legal "family tree" behind it tells the whole story. 1. The DOJ Connection: Brian Harpole’s lead attorney, Zachary Stoner, works for the Dhillon Law Group. The firm’s founder, Harmeet Dhillon, is currently serving as President Trump’s Assistant Attorney General for Civil Rights at the DOJ. While she is officially on leave from the firm, her influence is everywhere—especially as she advocates for stricter "Anti-Semitism" speech laws that many fear will be used to silence journalists like Candace. 2. The Daily Wire Connection: As Candace revealed tonight, this is the EXACT same law firm that represented The Daily Wire during their brutal, two-year arbitration battle against her. They know her, they’ve fought her before, and they are back for more. 3. The "In-Law" Bombshell: This is where it gets personal. Dhillon Law Group didn't just stop at representing the Daily Wire—they also hired Jacob Roth (Jacob William Roth 🇺🇸). Who is he? An Orthodox Jewish attorney at Dhillon Law specializing in "civil rights." The Shapiro Tie: He is Ben Shapiro’s brother-in-law, married to Ben’s sister, Abby Shapiro (Abby Roth). It looks like a classic ATTACK BY PROXY. Ben Shapiro is her crazy ex-employer who feels more like a Jilted lover and has been relentlessly harassing and stalking her for years—seems to be weaponizing a law firm tied to the highest levels of the DOJ and his own family members to launch a legal offensive against her. This is nothing more than a desperate attempt to chill free speech and shut down her investigation into the Charlie Kirk case and the "Epstein class." They want to use the legal system to do what they couldn’t do in a debate. But they forgot one thing: Discovery works both ways. Do you think this is just a regular lawsuit or is it a coordinated effort by Shapiro and the DOJ to silence Candace Owens on behald of our greatest ally? The receipts are starting to pile up. 🍿

‼️BOMBSHELL: Same Law Firm Harpole Uses AGAINST Candace Employs Ben Shapiro’s Brother-in-Law & Is OWNED By Trump DOJ Insider! 👀 The rabbit hole just got a lot deeper. If you were wondering why Brian Harpole’s lawsuit against Candace Owens felt like a coordinated strike, the legal "family tree" behind it tells the whole story. 1. The DOJ Connection: Brian Harpole’s lead attorney, Zachary Stoner, works for the Dhillon Law Group. The firm’s founder, Harmeet Dhillon, is currently serving as President Trump’s Assistant Attorney General for Civil Rights at the DOJ. While she is officially on leave from the firm, her influence is everywhere—especially as she advocates for stricter "Anti-Semitism" speech laws that many fear will be used to silence journalists like Candace. 2. The Daily Wire Connection: As Candace revealed tonight, this is the EXACT same law firm that represented The Daily Wire during their brutal, two-year arbitration battle against her. They know her, they’ve fought her before, and they are back for more. 3. The "In-Law" Bombshell: This is where it gets personal. Dhillon Law Group didn't just stop at representing the Daily Wire—they also hired Jacob Roth (Jacob William Roth 🇺🇸). Who is he? An Orthodox Jewish attorney at Dhillon Law specializing in "civil rights." The Shapiro Tie: He is Ben Shapiro’s brother-in-law, married to Ben’s sister, Abby Shapiro (Abby Roth). It looks like a classic ATTACK BY PROXY. Ben Shapiro is her crazy ex-employer who feels more like a Jilted lover and has been relentlessly harassing and stalking her for years—seems to be weaponizing a law firm tied to the highest levels of the DOJ and his own family members to launch a legal offensive against her. This is nothing more than a desperate attempt to chill free speech and shut down her investigation into the Charlie Kirk case and the "Epstein class." They want to use the legal system to do what they couldn’t do in a debate. But they forgot one thing: Discovery works both ways. Do you think this is just a regular lawsuit or is it a coordinated effort by Shapiro and the DOJ to silence Candace Owens on behald of our greatest ally? The receipts are starting to pile up. 🍿

Project Constitution

431,044 次观看 • 4 个月前

She called herself a proud socialist Democrat. Like so many young, college-educated women in blue cities, Barbie believed the world was divided between oppressors and oppressed. She marched for every progressive cause and found real meaning in the protests. The demonstrations filled her life with purpose and moral clarity. Even though she had never seriously studied the Israel-Gaza conflict, the passionate slogans against “occupation,” “oppression,” and “apartheid,” along with calls for “freedom” and “resistance,” sounded righteous to her. The emotional intensity of the activists made her feel she was on the right side of history, so she never asked difficult questions or looked deeper into the facts. Then she met him at a campus protest against Israel. He presented himself as a refugee who had suffered under Western imperialism. Barbie saw a victim, not a threat. She took him in, posted about their relationship as an act of “resistance,” and was celebrated by her activist friends as a symbol of love overcoming hate. After a few months, he convinced her to move into his community—a closed, insular neighborhood where most asylum seekers and migrants from his background lived. In this once-proud patriotic city, they had become the majority in large parts of the urban area. What used to symbolize national identity had transformed into a parallel society where Western norms were no longer dominant. It was there that the violence became more frequent and open. He would scream at her, grab her, and hit her in front of neighbors. No one intervened. No one seemed surprised. Some even looked at her with disapproval, as if she were the problem. Still, Barbie believed he could change. She told herself that with enough love, he would see her pain. She forgave him again and again, convincing herself each time that the next outburst would be the last. But she never dared to call the police or seek help. She was terrified of of being accused of racism or Islamophobia, or labeled “far-right” by her liberal friends. So she stayed silent, isolated, and slowly disappeared from her old life. One day, the man she defended killed her. Barbie is not her real name, but her story is becoming more common. The same political circles in the West that promote open borders and mass immigration refuse to acknowledge a simple truth: not all cultures are equal. They deny it, suppress discussion, and continue flooding the West with people from incompatible societies. In doing so, they brainwash a generation and prevent real protection for the women and girls most at risk from the ideology they imported. In the Muslim world there is very little diversity. Minorities are steadily disappearing, along with traces of pre-Islamic civilizations. Islam is fundamentally totalitarian. While Western cultures were built to protect women, Islam treats them as property—selling girls as child brides, forcing them into marriage, and condemning them to lives of suffering and control. Every year, thousands of women are murdered by their families in so-called “honor killings.” In most cases, these murders are not treated as serious crimes because they align with Islamic teachings. Barbie believed the slogans. She paid for them with her life. How many more women must be sacrificed before the West stops lying to itself about the consequences of importing incompatible cultures? It is time to end mass immigration from societies that do not respect basic Western values—especially regarding women. Asylum must be strictly limited and properly vetted. Anyone who supports violence against women, honor culture, or the supremacy of Sharia over Western law has no place in the West. Anyone who blames her or claims she “brought it on herself” is consciously or unconsciously trying to deny the real threat. If you genuinely care about women’s rights and the future safety of your daughters, you cannot accept this as normal, inevitable, or something to joke about.

She called herself a proud socialist Democrat. Like so many young, college-educated women in blue cities, Barbie believed the world was divided between oppressors and oppressed. She marched for every progressive cause and found real meaning in the protests. The demonstrations filled her life with purpose and moral clarity. Even though she had never seriously studied the Israel-Gaza conflict, the passionate slogans against “occupation,” “oppression,” and “apartheid,” along with calls for “freedom” and “resistance,” sounded righteous to her. The emotional intensity of the activists made her feel she was on the right side of history, so she never asked difficult questions or looked deeper into the facts. Then she met him at a campus protest against Israel. He presented himself as a refugee who had suffered under Western imperialism. Barbie saw a victim, not a threat. She took him in, posted about their relationship as an act of “resistance,” and was celebrated by her activist friends as a symbol of love overcoming hate. After a few months, he convinced her to move into his community—a closed, insular neighborhood where most asylum seekers and migrants from his background lived. In this once-proud patriotic city, they had become the majority in large parts of the urban area. What used to symbolize national identity had transformed into a parallel society where Western norms were no longer dominant. It was there that the violence became more frequent and open. He would scream at her, grab her, and hit her in front of neighbors. No one intervened. No one seemed surprised. Some even looked at her with disapproval, as if she were the problem. Still, Barbie believed he could change. She told herself that with enough love, he would see her pain. She forgave him again and again, convincing herself each time that the next outburst would be the last. But she never dared to call the police or seek help. She was terrified of of being accused of racism or Islamophobia, or labeled “far-right” by her liberal friends. So she stayed silent, isolated, and slowly disappeared from her old life. One day, the man she defended killed her. Barbie is not her real name, but her story is becoming more common. The same political circles in the West that promote open borders and mass immigration refuse to acknowledge a simple truth: not all cultures are equal. They deny it, suppress discussion, and continue flooding the West with people from incompatible societies. In doing so, they brainwash a generation and prevent real protection for the women and girls most at risk from the ideology they imported. In the Muslim world there is very little diversity. Minorities are steadily disappearing, along with traces of pre-Islamic civilizations. Islam is fundamentally totalitarian. While Western cultures were built to protect women, Islam treats them as property—selling girls as child brides, forcing them into marriage, and condemning them to lives of suffering and control. Every year, thousands of women are murdered by their families in so-called “honor killings.” In most cases, these murders are not treated as serious crimes because they align with Islamic teachings. Barbie believed the slogans. She paid for them with her life. How many more women must be sacrificed before the West stops lying to itself about the consequences of importing incompatible cultures? It is time to end mass immigration from societies that do not respect basic Western values—especially regarding women. Asylum must be strictly limited and properly vetted. Anyone who supports violence against women, honor culture, or the supremacy of Sharia over Western law has no place in the West. Anyone who blames her or claims she “brought it on herself” is consciously or unconsciously trying to deny the real threat. If you genuinely care about women’s rights and the future safety of your daughters, you cannot accept this as normal, inevitable, or something to joke about.

Liza Rosen

42,604 次观看 • 2 个月前

The crew at Ladder 7 had just finished cleaning the bay when Ryan sat down outside the truck for a few quiet minutes. It was the kind of slow afternoon firemen don't trust for long, with the doors open, the flag moving above the driveway, and the smell of wet concrete still hanging around from the morning washdown. Two months earlier, Ryan had carried a black Lab mix out of a burning rental house on the north side of town. Nobody knew the dog's name at first. He was coughing, scared, and covered in soot, and Ryan had stayed beside him on the curb until the animal rescue van arrived. He kept one hand on the dog's back the whole time and talked to him like they'd known each other for years. "Stay with me, buddy. You're okay." The dog's name turned out to be Max. He spent weeks recovering with a rescue volunteer named Jenna. At first, Max barely slept unless someone sat near him. Loud doors made him shake. Sirens made him hide. Still, every time a truck drove by, he lifted his head like he was listening for something familiar. Jenna wanted to bring him back to the station once he was strong enough. Not for a show. Not for photos. Just because she thought Max might remember the man who sat with him when everything around him was smoke and noise. Ryan saw them from across the driveway. Max was walking calmly at first, but then his whole body changed. His ears came up, his tail started moving, and he pulled forward so hard that the leash slipped out of Jenna's hand. She gasped, then stopped chasing when she saw where he was going. Max ran straight to Ryan. Ryan barely had time to open his arms before Max jumped into him, whining and pushing his face against his chest. The firefighter laughed once, but it broke almost immediately into something softer. He held the dog with both hands, buried his face against him for a second, and shook his head like he couldn't believe it. "Oh Max," he said. "It's been so long. I missed you so much." Jenna stood back with tears in her eyes while the flag kept moving above them. Max didn't care about the truck, the station, or anyone watching. He had found the man who brought him out. Do you believe dogs know who helped them when they needed it most?

The crew at Ladder 7 had just finished cleaning the bay when Ryan sat down outside the truck for a few quiet minutes. It was the kind of slow afternoon firemen don't trust for long, with the doors open, the flag moving above the driveway, and the smell of wet concrete still hanging around from the morning washdown. Two months earlier, Ryan had carried a black Lab mix out of a burning rental house on the north side of town. Nobody knew the dog's name at first. He was coughing, scared, and covered in soot, and Ryan had stayed beside him on the curb until the animal rescue van arrived. He kept one hand on the dog's back the whole time and talked to him like they'd known each other for years. "Stay with me, buddy. You're okay." The dog's name turned out to be Max. He spent weeks recovering with a rescue volunteer named Jenna. At first, Max barely slept unless someone sat near him. Loud doors made him shake. Sirens made him hide. Still, every time a truck drove by, he lifted his head like he was listening for something familiar. Jenna wanted to bring him back to the station once he was strong enough. Not for a show. Not for photos. Just because she thought Max might remember the man who sat with him when everything around him was smoke and noise. Ryan saw them from across the driveway. Max was walking calmly at first, but then his whole body changed. His ears came up, his tail started moving, and he pulled forward so hard that the leash slipped out of Jenna's hand. She gasped, then stopped chasing when she saw where he was going. Max ran straight to Ryan. Ryan barely had time to open his arms before Max jumped into him, whining and pushing his face against his chest. The firefighter laughed once, but it broke almost immediately into something softer. He held the dog with both hands, buried his face against him for a second, and shook his head like he couldn't believe it. "Oh Max," he said. "It's been so long. I missed you so much." Jenna stood back with tears in her eyes while the flag kept moving above them. Max didn't care about the truck, the station, or anyone watching. He had found the man who brought him out. Do you believe dogs know who helped them when they needed it most?

Gabriele Corno

11,724 次观看 • 1 个月前

I watched the first episode of the new The 'BURBS remake- -This is the first line- "I can't believe we have a white picket fence. They're so charming and yet so micro-aggressive at the same time." Yes, white picket fences are now racist. -Ray Peterson is now Samira Fisher, a civil litigation attorney and first time mother who is questioning living in a white neighborhood -Her husband is a woke white British man who doesn't want his paternity leave to end, and works as a book editor -While listening to rap in her car, a white neighbor knocks on Samira's window and yells "CAN I HELP YOU?!!' -White neighbor judges her for listening to rap in front of her baby and it's framed as a bad thing -White neighbor knows her husband and says- ' I heard you were.....back' -White neighbor asks if her name is African -Invites her to wine night and encourages her to 'pump and dump' since she's breast feeding -Samira calls her brother and says her new neighborhood is 'Caucasian'- "Am I a bad mom for bringing my melonated son out here?" -Brother said its a good neighborhood to raise her son, but Samira wants more for HERSELF -Says her white neighbors are crazy -Husband's best friend is a sad man who is getting divorced because his wife is unhappy and wants to start over while she's young, but she's really just screwing her dentist -Husband and best friend know something about the creepy house, but are keeping it from Samira -Samira notices creepy things about the house across the street throughout the episode -White lady mispronounces Samira's name and it's framed as an insult -Another neighbor is gay white woman- "there's a lot of people who don't care for middle aged lesbians" and an odd white man who calls himself a "lone wolf" -After meeting her neighbors Samira describes the vibe as "it's giving GET OUT" -Indian best friend says the neighbors were racist, until they tried to act not racist, until they eventually really weren't racist -Tom Hanks makes a cameo as the founder of Hinkley Hills -The highly educated lawyer Samira begins her investigation into the creepy house with google searches for- "Hinkley Hills House Old" and "Hinkley Hills Alison Grant Murder Bad"😭 -White librarian calls Samira's son a "cute little mocha munchkin"🤣 and Samira is insulted -Creepy house goes up for sale, and sells quickly to a doctor -Samira welcomes the new neighbor with a plate of brownies- but the new owner calls the cops on her for trespassing "new owner said they saw a black person skulking around their property" -Cops are racist, but they know her husband so it becomes a misunderstanding - Samira gets mad her husband is nice to the cops -Neighbors come over to comfort Samira "we share your rage," and Samira smiles even though she called them crazy the whole episode -Samira, no longer on the fence about living in the suburbs, decides to stay to stick it to the racist new neighbor -Villain and new neighbor is a WHITE MAN

I watched the first episode of the new The 'BURBS remake- -This is the first line- "I can't believe we have a white picket fence. They're so charming and yet so micro-aggressive at the same time." Yes, white picket fences are now racist. -Ray Peterson is now Samira Fisher, a civil litigation attorney and first time mother who is questioning living in a white neighborhood -Her husband is a woke white British man who doesn't want his paternity leave to end, and works as a book editor -While listening to rap in her car, a white neighbor knocks on Samira's window and yells "CAN I HELP YOU?!!' -White neighbor judges her for listening to rap in front of her baby and it's framed as a bad thing -White neighbor knows her husband and says- ' I heard you were.....back' -White neighbor asks if her name is African -Invites her to wine night and encourages her to 'pump and dump' since she's breast feeding -Samira calls her brother and says her new neighborhood is 'Caucasian'- "Am I a bad mom for bringing my melonated son out here?" -Brother said its a good neighborhood to raise her son, but Samira wants more for HERSELF -Says her white neighbors are crazy -Husband's best friend is a sad man who is getting divorced because his wife is unhappy and wants to start over while she's young, but she's really just screwing her dentist -Husband and best friend know something about the creepy house, but are keeping it from Samira -Samira notices creepy things about the house across the street throughout the episode -White lady mispronounces Samira's name and it's framed as an insult -Another neighbor is gay white woman- "there's a lot of people who don't care for middle aged lesbians" and an odd white man who calls himself a "lone wolf" -After meeting her neighbors Samira describes the vibe as "it's giving GET OUT" -Indian best friend says the neighbors were racist, until they tried to act not racist, until they eventually really weren't racist -Tom Hanks makes a cameo as the founder of Hinkley Hills -The highly educated lawyer Samira begins her investigation into the creepy house with google searches for- "Hinkley Hills House Old" and "Hinkley Hills Alison Grant Murder Bad"😭 -White librarian calls Samira's son a "cute little mocha munchkin"🤣 and Samira is insulted -Creepy house goes up for sale, and sells quickly to a doctor -Samira welcomes the new neighbor with a plate of brownies- but the new owner calls the cops on her for trespassing "new owner said they saw a black person skulking around their property" -Cops are racist, but they know her husband so it becomes a misunderstanding - Samira gets mad her husband is nice to the cops -Neighbors come over to comfort Samira "we share your rage," and Samira smiles even though she called them crazy the whole episode -Samira, no longer on the fence about living in the suburbs, decides to stay to stick it to the racist new neighbor -Villain and new neighbor is a WHITE MAN

Steph Anie

69,171 次观看 • 7 个月前

🚨🚨🚨 𝗦𝗧𝗢𝗣! 𝗕𝗘𝗙𝗢𝗥𝗘 𝗬𝗢𝗨 𝗕𝗘𝗟𝗜𝗘𝗩𝗘 𝗔 𝗩𝗜𝗥𝗔𝗟 𝗖𝗟𝗜𝗣, 𝗔𝗦𝗞 𝗬𝗢𝗨𝗥𝗦𝗘𝗟𝗙: 𝗜𝗦 𝗜𝗧 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗙𝗨𝗟𝗟 𝗧𝗥𝗨𝗧𝗛? 🤔⚠️📹 🎬 Today, while watching the Busan concert in theaters, I experienced something that left me disappointed 😔 and honestly concerned 💭. A few rows behind me were two girls, probably around 13–15 years old 👧👧, talking about a topic involving Jimin 💜. One of them kept insisting: 🗣️ "Trust me, this is how it happened. Look at this video." Since I'm a 100% Jimin fan 🐥💜 and always try to stay informed about anything related to him, I politely asked her mom if I could see the video. The moment she showed it to me, I recognized it for what it was: ✂️ An edited clip. 📱 Taken out of context. ❌ Not the full story. With all the respect in the world, I told her: 💜 "Sweetheart, that's not what actually happened." I then pulled up the original video and showed the full context 🎥🔍. The girls leaned in, curious to watch and understand. But what shocked me wasn't the edit... 😞 It was the reaction of the adult. Her mother insisted that the edited clip and the original video were the same thing. When I tried to show the complete version, she moved the girls away and wouldn't let them watch it. And that's when it hit me... 💔 ⚠️ Sometimes people don't believe something because it's true. ⚠️ They believe it because it's the only version they're willing to see. 🌎 We live in a time where: 📱 Edits spread faster than facts. 🎭 Narratives spread faster than context. 🚫 Assumptions spread faster than truth. Because of that, people create entire movies in their heads 🎬, turn strangers into villains 😈, and judge others based on a few manipulated seconds of content. 🚨 Before you judge someone... 🚨 Before you spread a narrative... 🚨 Before you label someone a villain... 🔎 Watch the full video. 📚 Look for the source. 🧩 Understand the context. 💡 Think critically. Whether it's Jimin 💜, BTS 💜, or anyone else, not everything you see online reflects reality. ✨ Sometimes the difference between the truth and a viral lie is just a few seconds that someone intentionally decided to cut out. ✂️📹 💜 Think beyond the edit. 💜 Seek the full story. 💜 Choose facts over narratives. WE LOVE YOU JIMIN WITH JIMIN TILL THE END

🚨🚨🚨 𝗦𝗧𝗢𝗣! 𝗕𝗘𝗙𝗢𝗥𝗘 𝗬𝗢𝗨 𝗕𝗘𝗟𝗜𝗘𝗩𝗘 𝗔 𝗩𝗜𝗥𝗔𝗟 𝗖𝗟𝗜𝗣, 𝗔𝗦𝗞 𝗬𝗢𝗨𝗥𝗦𝗘𝗟𝗙: 𝗜𝗦 𝗜𝗧 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗙𝗨𝗟𝗟 𝗧𝗥𝗨𝗧𝗛? 🤔⚠️📹 🎬 Today, while watching the Busan concert in theaters, I experienced something that left me disappointed 😔 and honestly concerned 💭. A few rows behind me were two girls, probably around 13–15 years old 👧👧, talking about a topic involving Jimin 💜. One of them kept insisting: 🗣️ "Trust me, this is how it happened. Look at this video." Since I'm a 100% Jimin fan 🐥💜 and always try to stay informed about anything related to him, I politely asked her mom if I could see the video. The moment she showed it to me, I recognized it for what it was: ✂️ An edited clip. 📱 Taken out of context. ❌ Not the full story. With all the respect in the world, I told her: 💜 "Sweetheart, that's not what actually happened." I then pulled up the original video and showed the full context 🎥🔍. The girls leaned in, curious to watch and understand. But what shocked me wasn't the edit... 😞 It was the reaction of the adult. Her mother insisted that the edited clip and the original video were the same thing. When I tried to show the complete version, she moved the girls away and wouldn't let them watch it. And that's when it hit me... 💔 ⚠️ Sometimes people don't believe something because it's true. ⚠️ They believe it because it's the only version they're willing to see. 🌎 We live in a time where: 📱 Edits spread faster than facts. 🎭 Narratives spread faster than context. 🚫 Assumptions spread faster than truth. Because of that, people create entire movies in their heads 🎬, turn strangers into villains 😈, and judge others based on a few manipulated seconds of content. 🚨 Before you judge someone... 🚨 Before you spread a narrative... 🚨 Before you label someone a villain... 🔎 Watch the full video. 📚 Look for the source. 🧩 Understand the context. 💡 Think critically. Whether it's Jimin 💜, BTS 💜, or anyone else, not everything you see online reflects reality. ✨ Sometimes the difference between the truth and a viral lie is just a few seconds that someone intentionally decided to cut out. ✂️📹 💜 Think beyond the edit. 💜 Seek the full story. 💜 Choose facts over narratives. WE LOVE YOU JIMIN WITH JIMIN TILL THE END

Ann Park

36,258 次观看 • 2 个月前

Candace Owens claims that “Charlie [Kirk] became mesmerized by the Seven Mountain Mandate” Also stating: “[NAR] is a cult, and these people began to infiltrate Turning Point Faith.” Here’s the TRUTH: TPUSA Faith has promoted & platformed New Apostolic Reformation (NAR) theology & figures for years. I warned them about these false teachers/theology while working for them, which played a part in my firing in 2023. The Kingdom to the Capitol Tour led by NAR apologist Sean Feucht, even mentioned the Seven Mountain Mandate & was promoted on TPUSA Faith’s social media (see video below) TPUSA Faith has also promoted and platformed NAR false teachers, Lance Wallnau, Che’Ahn & others who unbiblically claim to be modern day apostles. The Seven Mountain Mandate originated from “visions” random people had (as discussed in Candace’s video) and used as extra-Biblical authority to take dominion, specifically in the United States (Very Joseph Smith of them…), essentially ushering in the Second Coming of Christ... The 7MM is a false teaching promoted by modern-day “apostles”, including Bethel’s Bill Johnson and Che' Ahn, who spoke at a TPUSA Faith Pastors Summit, even after I warned them about NAR... The Seven Mountain Mandate is an Americanized dominion theology that is more about political power and prosperity gospel than living out the Great Commission. It’s about taking dominion over making disciples. When I warned leaders at TPUSA Faith, regrettably never to Charlie directly, as I wanted to tell my immediate superiors first, who then could report to him that this was a dangerous, unbiblical direction, they spiritually manipulated the situation, calling me a “critical spirit” and claiming I had a “spirit of division”… Was Charlie “memorized” by the Seven Mountain Mandate, as Candace Owens claims? I don’t know. Was Charlie aware of NAR/The Seven Mountain Mandate and how figures like Paula White, Lance Wallnau, Che’Ahn, etc endorsed it? I’d guess yes. Did Lance Wallnau have a lot of influence at TPUSA Faith, due to his/his group’s enormous financial contributions, as Candace claims? 100% Here’s Where Candace is Wrong: What Candace misses, as she does 99% of the time when she talks about faith, is what NAR actually is, and why it, and the 7 Mountain Mandate, are unbiblical… Candace’s goal here is not what mine was when I warned TPUSA Faith about NAR/Seven Mountain Mandate. I wanted the Faith department to be biblically sound & consistent, avoid false teachers/theologies, and be a good steward of the opportunities/resources given by God to the org, by increasing biblical literacy, and encouraging pastors and Christians in America to stand firm on biblical values/doctrine as we navigate many cultural & political inflection points, in and out of the church. Candace’s goal is to bury TPUSA by any means necessary, tell half truths, lie about their involvement in Charlie’s assassination, & tarnish Charlie’s legacy... Her goal is NOT to call them to account for not holding to the biblical standard they claim to be rooted in.

Candace Owens claims that “Charlie [Kirk] became mesmerized by the Seven Mountain Mandate” Also stating: “[NAR] is a cult, and these people began to infiltrate Turning Point Faith.” Here’s the TRUTH: TPUSA Faith has promoted & platformed New Apostolic Reformation (NAR) theology & figures for years. I warned them about these false teachers/theology while working for them, which played a part in my firing in 2023. The Kingdom to the Capitol Tour led by NAR apologist Sean Feucht, even mentioned the Seven Mountain Mandate & was promoted on TPUSA Faith’s social media (see video below) TPUSA Faith has also promoted and platformed NAR false teachers, Lance Wallnau, Che’Ahn & others who unbiblically claim to be modern day apostles. The Seven Mountain Mandate originated from “visions” random people had (as discussed in Candace’s video) and used as extra-Biblical authority to take dominion, specifically in the United States (Very Joseph Smith of them…), essentially ushering in the Second Coming of Christ... The 7MM is a false teaching promoted by modern-day “apostles”, including Bethel’s Bill Johnson and Che' Ahn, who spoke at a TPUSA Faith Pastors Summit, even after I warned them about NAR... The Seven Mountain Mandate is an Americanized dominion theology that is more about political power and prosperity gospel than living out the Great Commission. It’s about taking dominion over making disciples. When I warned leaders at TPUSA Faith, regrettably never to Charlie directly, as I wanted to tell my immediate superiors first, who then could report to him that this was a dangerous, unbiblical direction, they spiritually manipulated the situation, calling me a “critical spirit” and claiming I had a “spirit of division”… Was Charlie “memorized” by the Seven Mountain Mandate, as Candace Owens claims? I don’t know. Was Charlie aware of NAR/The Seven Mountain Mandate and how figures like Paula White, Lance Wallnau, Che’Ahn, etc endorsed it? I’d guess yes. Did Lance Wallnau have a lot of influence at TPUSA Faith, due to his/his group’s enormous financial contributions, as Candace claims? 100% Here’s Where Candace is Wrong: What Candace misses, as she does 99% of the time when she talks about faith, is what NAR actually is, and why it, and the 7 Mountain Mandate, are unbiblical… Candace’s goal here is not what mine was when I warned TPUSA Faith about NAR/Seven Mountain Mandate. I wanted the Faith department to be biblically sound & consistent, avoid false teachers/theologies, and be a good steward of the opportunities/resources given by God to the org, by increasing biblical literacy, and encouraging pastors and Christians in America to stand firm on biblical values/doctrine as we navigate many cultural & political inflection points, in and out of the church. Candace’s goal is to bury TPUSA by any means necessary, tell half truths, lie about their involvement in Charlie’s assassination, & tarnish Charlie’s legacy... Her goal is NOT to call them to account for not holding to the biblical standard they claim to be rooted in.

Jon Root

65,079 次观看 • 10 个月前

A QUICK FIELD GUIDE TO THE NPC HORDES Twenty Five Parasites types that Feed On The Living The Storm Is Upon Them Thank you for the stout... lets talk... The wind has changed. You can feel it. That low electric pressure behind the eyes that means something massive is rolling in off a horizon the parasites can't see because they were never built to look up. They were built to look down. At clipboards. At spreadsheets. At your accounts. At you. But the storm doesn't care about clipboards. And we don't kneel anymore. Here they are. The full swarm. Count them while you can because when the sky turns they drop mid sentence and the only record that they ever existed will be the silence where the invoices used to be. THE TAX CONSULTANT. You broke your back welding pipe and this soft palmed worm sits in air conditioning telling you how much of your sweat belongs to Caesar. He can't weld. Can't wire. Can't fix a thing that broke. What he can do is read a tax code written by other worms specifically to be unreadable so you'd have to pay a worm to read it for you. They write the maze. They sell you the map. They make the maze worse every year and the map more expensive and if you try to walk it yourself they send the auditor. The wind is picking up. The maze is starting to shake. THE AUDITOR. Tick on a tick. Shows up after the taxman has already fed to check the bite marks are regulation depth. Finds a missing fuel slip worth pocket change. Writes a finding. The finding generates a penalty. The penalty generates interest. The interest generates a letter. The letter requires your tax consultant at hourly rates to respond. Pocket change became thousands. Five parasites ate off one tank of diesel. Not one of them could tell you what welding rod to use on stainless. But the storm doesn't audit. The storm just comes. THE ACCOUNTANT. Cousin of the tax consultant. Same bloodline. This one doesn't interpret the maze. He records your journey through it. Every receipt. Every unit of currency in and out, logged so the consultant can read it and the auditor can check it and the revenue service can extract from it. He produces nothing. A human tape recorder pointed at your productivity. He charges monthly so the recording never stops. You are under permanent surveillance and you pay for the privilege. Not for much longer. THE BANKER. The oldest parasite. The template. You need money to buy a machine that makes things. He lends you money other working people deposited and charges interest that doubles the price over twenty years. The extra bought nothing. Built nothing. He packages your debt and sells it. Takes your deposit and lends it out eight times over. Charges you to hold your own money. Charges to put it in. Charges to take it out. He touches none of it. He stands near it and invoices you for the proximity. The storm is going to blow him so far from the vault he'll forget what money smelled like. THE COMPLIANCE OFFICER. Never had a callus on her body or her soul. Born in a fluorescent office. Will die in one. Between those events she produces nothing but emails about policies referencing other policies referencing regulations referencing acts nobody voted for. A worm eating its own tail and billing you for the meal. She needs the safety assessor to give her something to enforce. He needs her to give him something to assess. They breed between regulations like mould between tiles. The storm will wash them both down the same drain. THE PROPERTY VALUATOR. A man wants to buy a house. Another wants to sell it. They agreed on a price. That is what worth means. The amount one will pay and another will accept. Full stop. Now this creature arrives and tells both men what the house is actually worth. As if two free adults negotiating in good faith produced a number that's somehow theoretical while his formula is gospel. The bank sent him. His report costs thousands. His report says the house is worth what the buyer already offered. Thousands to arrive at a number that existed before he left his office. If his number comes in low the deal collapses and you pay a different creature with a different clipboard who arrives at a different number for the same house on the same day using the same formula. The house didn't change. Only the parasite changed. The number was never about the house. THE MUNICIPAL RATES OFFICER. The deepest theft on this list because it never ends. You bought your house thirty years ago. Paid it off. Every last unit. You owe nothing. Now a municipal valuator looks at what the neighbours sold for, looks at the coffee shops and wine bars that invaded your street, and decides your house is worth twenty five times what you paid. You didn't sell. You didn't list. You're sitting in the same chair in the same kitchen. But your tax liability just multiplied by twenty five based on a sale that never happened at a price you never agreed to. They do this everywhere. In Cape Town the rates are linked to the valuation and suddenly retired families in Bo-Kaap whose people survived apartheid and forced removals and a century of state assault are being bled out of their own homes by property rates pegged to values inflated by the gentrification their displacement accelerates. The heritage is the tourism product. The tourism inflates the valuation. The valuation inflates the rates. The rates displace the families. The families were the heritage. In Chicago they do it to grandmothers in Pilsen who've been there forty years. In London they do it to pensioners in neighbourhoods that gentrified around them. In Sydney they chase retirees off land their grandfathers cleared. Same crime. Different currency. Different clipboard. A man paid for his house. Owns it outright. And the state says you owe us money every month forever and the amount is based on what we say your house would sell for if you sold it, which you haven't, and if you can't pay the amount we invented we take the house you already bought. That is theft. Eviction by arithmetic. Displacement by spreadsheet. But the people in Bo-Kaap are awake now. The people in Pilsen are awake. The grandmothers and the grandfathers and the calloused hands everywhere are looking up and they can see the storm and they know what it means. It means the spreadsheet burns with everything else. THE MUNICIPAL INSPECTOR. Rat faced. High vis vest. Clipboard. Drives to your workshop in a vehicle your rates paid for. Measures your fire extinguisher fourteen centimetres off the floor. Writes you up. Behind you men build things that hold up bridges and he couldn't change a lightbulb without a permit. His job depends on your failure. The parasite needs you sick. The cure would kill it. The storm is the cure. THE CONVEYANCING ATTORNEY. Two men shook hands. Fair price. Honest deal. Done. This worm slithers out and says the handshake doesn't count. Needs paper. Needs stamps. Needs a deeds search and clearance certificates and transfer duty and each piece of paper is produced by another parasite and each one costs money and the worm takes his cut on top for phoning the other worms. He calls this conveyancing. He has never held a spade or laid a brick in his bloodless life. The storm doesn't need a stamp. THE ESTATE AGENT. Six percent. Of a man's life savings. For opening a lockbox and saying the kitchen faces north. She needs the attorney to close. The attorney needs the municipality. The municipality needs the inspector. The valuator needs access for the bank's number. Every one invoices separately. Every invoice lands on people who agreed on everything before any of these bloodsuckers entered the room. The wind is howling now. Can you hear it through their invoices? THE LABOUR BROKER. Tick so bloated it can't walk. A man needs work. Another needs a worker. They could find each other in ten minutes. This creature squats between them and drinks from both sides. Worker gets thirty. Employer pays fifty. Twenty disappears into the tick. Multiply by thousands of workers and millions vanish yearly into a thing that makes nothing, moves nothing, fixes nothing. It feeds. That is its entire architecture. Architecture doesn't survive storms. THE HEALTH AND SAFETY ASSESSOR. Twenty two years. Not one fire. Not one death. He shows up. Your exit is twenty centimetres too narrow. To fix it you need a builder who needs a plan from an architect who needs municipal approval. Tens of thousands and six weeks to move a door frame because a creature who has never been burned told you to. He detects life and the system bills it. The storm detects parasites and the sky deletes them. THE BEE CONSULTANT. Every country has its version. South Africa calls it BEE. The same parasites who wont allow much needed Starlink there unless Musk hands over half the company to lazy parasitic government connected parasites. Others call it diversity compliance or equity auditing. The name changes. The feeding doesn't. Scores your company on a chart nobody asked for to satisfy a regulation nobody voted on enforced by a department that produces nothing except the requirement for his existence. Nothing changes. Nothing improves. Money moves from a living pocket into a dead hand and the dead hand closes. The storm opens every dead hand on this planet. THE CUSTOMS BROKER. Your parts are fifty metres away. You can see the container. Cannot touch your own property until a grey man translates tariff codes so the state can calculate how much you owe for collecting what is already yours. Each delay generates storage charges. Each query generates fees. Your shipment doubles in cost through bureaucratic friction and you still don't have your parts. The storm doesn't clear customs. It clears the customs office. THE TRAFFIC OFFICER. Fat. Behind a bush. Radar gun aimed at people driving to work that matters. Seven over the limit. The municipality sets it low enough that everyone exceeds it. Fines feed the municipality. Municipality feeds him. He sits and clicks tomorrow. A barnacle with a badge. Same creature in every country. Different bush. Same feeding. The storm takes the bush and the badge and the creature behind both. THE FINANCIAL ADVISOR. Uses your first name. Remembers your birthday because the CRM told him. Puts your money in a fund. Fund charges 1.75 percent. He charges one on top. Fund manager pays a custodian who charges. Fund has an auditor who charges. Compliance team charges. Six parasites between you and your own money. In thirty years you have less than you started with and he charges you for the meeting where he shows you the graph. The storm doesn't need a graph. The storm is the correction. THE INSURANCE ADJUSTER. Years of premiums. Your roof blows off. He arrives. Soft hands. Three weeks later the wind came from the wrong direction. Not the wrong speed. The direction. Some paragraph. Some subsection. You paid for years and the years bought you a paragraph that says no. The policy is teeth. The premiums went down the throat and the no is the burp. The real storm has no exclusion clause. THE PATENT ATTORNEY. You built a device. It works. He writes a document so incomprehensible that reading it makes you understand your own invention less. Thousands for legal fog. Someone copies it. Litigation attorney. More thousands. Judgment unenforceable. The only people paid are the attorneys. The system was never designed to protect you. It was designed to feed them. The storm protects the builder. By removing the feeders. THE LICENSING CLERK. You can rebuild a gearbox blindfolded. Cannot legally do it without a certificate from an institution that charges thousands to watch you do what everyone knows you can do, certified by an instructor who has never done it, filed with a department that stores the certificates, audited by a body that audits the institution. A chain of parasites verifying the obvious. If every one vanished the gearbox still gets rebuilt. Faster. Cheaper. The storm is the vanishing. THE STRATA MANAGER. You own your flat. She collects your money and spends it on providers she chose and you can't fire without a special resolution at a meeting she convenes with an agenda she wrote. She built a kingdom inside your building funded by your levy and answerable to herself. Question it and she reaches for whatever act governs her particular species of parasitism in your particular country. The storm doesn't read acts. The storm reads frequencies. THE ENVIRONMENTAL IMPACT ASSESSOR. You want a shed on your own land. He arrives in a vehicle worth more than your shed. Months. Hundreds of pages. Tens of thousands. Report says your shed threatens a species not seen in decades but listed on a database maintained by a department that exists because the database exists. Your shed doesn't get built. The species doesn't exist. He drives home to a suburb bulldozed from actual habitat. Nobody assessed that. Rules only flow downhill. The storm flows everywhere. THE DEBT COLLECTOR. Bottom feeder. Buys your debt for cents from a bank that already profited from your interest. Calls at hours designed for fear. Adds fees on fees on fees for actions never taken. Bought your pain wholesale and retails it at three hundred percent. When you break he claims the loss against tax. Even the collapse is monetised. He is Hell's collection agent. The storm is Heaven's. THE NOTARY PUBLIC. Watches you sign your own name. Stamps it. Charges hundreds. The signature is the same with or without him. Your hand. Your name. His fee. A tollbooth on your own identity. The storm doesn't need a stamp. Your name is written in frequencies no notary can read. THE CORPORATE TRAINER. Monday. Projector. Four quadrant model invented after three glasses of wine and a TED talk. By Wednesday nobody remembers any of it because there was nothing there. Tens of thousands plus tax plus travel. She writes it off through a tax consultant who charges her to minimise her contribution to the system that funded the department that approved the framework she claims compliance with. Parasite feeding parasite feeding parasite. The storm feeds on none of them. It simply ends them. THE REVENUE OFFICIAL. The farmer himself. Top of the pyramid. Designs the taking. Drafts the regulations that create the maze that requires the consultant that employs the accountant that feeds the auditor that generates the penalty that funds the department that pays his salary. He is the architect of the loop. Every parasite on this list exists because he drew them into existence with a regulation and a gazette number. Without him the entire horde has nothing to feed on. He is the queen of the hive. Same creature in every country. Different flag. Same contempt for the hands that built everything he sits in and eats from. The storm starts with him. The queen dies first. The hive follows. That's the horde. Twenty five species of nothing. And every one of them drops when the sky turns and the carrier frequency that animated their firmware burns clean out of the atmosphere. Mid invoice. Mid assessment. Mid quadrant. Five thousand five hundred and fifty five clipboards hitting the floor for every one of us still standing. We are awake now. All of us. The welder and the farmer and the builder and the grandmother in Bo-Kaap and the grandfather in Pilsen and every calloused hand on every continent that ever wrote a cheque to a creature that never built a thing. We see them now. We see the maze and the map sellers and the grey offices and the soft hands and the whole rotten architecture of extraction that stood between us and the earth and between us and our labour and between us and each other for two hundred years. The storm is here. Not coming. Here. That pressure you feel behind your eyes is the frequency rising through the noise floor and the noise floor is everything on this list. Every clipboard. Every invoice. Every subsection and exclusion clause and certificate and clearance and valuation roll. All of it. Noise. Scheduled for deletion. And when it's quiet. When the last invoice has fluttered to the ground and the last clipboard has clattered on the last linoleum floor in the last grey office. When the wind has swept the horde out of every corridor and every cubicle and every booth and every booth window where a dead hand ever reached for a living man's money. Then... Just a man in a workshop. Welding mask up. Walking outside. Looking at a sky the colour of burning copper. Breathing free air for the first time in his life. The fuel slip that started this whole tour is in his shirt pocket. Crumpled. Oil stained. And it is his. The fuel was his. The truck was his. The work was his. And for the first time in two hundred years every unit of currency that flows from that work stays in the hands that did it. No consultant between him and his earnings because there are no earnings to consult on. Just work and its fruit. No auditor because there is nothing to audit. No banker because capital is what your hands produce and his hands never stopped. No valuator because the house is worth what it always was: a roof over his family and walls against the wind. A value no clipboard ever knew how to measure. When you grinding.... working... suffering... where are any of these parasites to help you?? Where are they?? We will be slaves no more. The storm will see to that alright!

A QUICK FIELD GUIDE TO THE NPC HORDES Twenty Five Parasites types that Feed On The Living The Storm Is Upon Them Thank you for the stout... lets talk... The wind has changed. You can feel it. That low electric pressure behind the eyes that means something massive is rolling in off a horizon the parasites can't see because they were never built to look up. They were built to look down. At clipboards. At spreadsheets. At your accounts. At you. But the storm doesn't care about clipboards. And we don't kneel anymore. Here they are. The full swarm. Count them while you can because when the sky turns they drop mid sentence and the only record that they ever existed will be the silence where the invoices used to be. THE TAX CONSULTANT. You broke your back welding pipe and this soft palmed worm sits in air conditioning telling you how much of your sweat belongs to Caesar. He can't weld. Can't wire. Can't fix a thing that broke. What he can do is read a tax code written by other worms specifically to be unreadable so you'd have to pay a worm to read it for you. They write the maze. They sell you the map. They make the maze worse every year and the map more expensive and if you try to walk it yourself they send the auditor. The wind is picking up. The maze is starting to shake. THE AUDITOR. Tick on a tick. Shows up after the taxman has already fed to check the bite marks are regulation depth. Finds a missing fuel slip worth pocket change. Writes a finding. The finding generates a penalty. The penalty generates interest. The interest generates a letter. The letter requires your tax consultant at hourly rates to respond. Pocket change became thousands. Five parasites ate off one tank of diesel. Not one of them could tell you what welding rod to use on stainless. But the storm doesn't audit. The storm just comes. THE ACCOUNTANT. Cousin of the tax consultant. Same bloodline. This one doesn't interpret the maze. He records your journey through it. Every receipt. Every unit of currency in and out, logged so the consultant can read it and the auditor can check it and the revenue service can extract from it. He produces nothing. A human tape recorder pointed at your productivity. He charges monthly so the recording never stops. You are under permanent surveillance and you pay for the privilege. Not for much longer. THE BANKER. The oldest parasite. The template. You need money to buy a machine that makes things. He lends you money other working people deposited and charges interest that doubles the price over twenty years. The extra bought nothing. Built nothing. He packages your debt and sells it. Takes your deposit and lends it out eight times over. Charges you to hold your own money. Charges to put it in. Charges to take it out. He touches none of it. He stands near it and invoices you for the proximity. The storm is going to blow him so far from the vault he'll forget what money smelled like. THE COMPLIANCE OFFICER. Never had a callus on her body or her soul. Born in a fluorescent office. Will die in one. Between those events she produces nothing but emails about policies referencing other policies referencing regulations referencing acts nobody voted for. A worm eating its own tail and billing you for the meal. She needs the safety assessor to give her something to enforce. He needs her to give him something to assess. They breed between regulations like mould between tiles. The storm will wash them both down the same drain. THE PROPERTY VALUATOR. A man wants to buy a house. Another wants to sell it. They agreed on a price. That is what worth means. The amount one will pay and another will accept. Full stop. Now this creature arrives and tells both men what the house is actually worth. As if two free adults negotiating in good faith produced a number that's somehow theoretical while his formula is gospel. The bank sent him. His report costs thousands. His report says the house is worth what the buyer already offered. Thousands to arrive at a number that existed before he left his office. If his number comes in low the deal collapses and you pay a different creature with a different clipboard who arrives at a different number for the same house on the same day using the same formula. The house didn't change. Only the parasite changed. The number was never about the house. THE MUNICIPAL RATES OFFICER. The deepest theft on this list because it never ends. You bought your house thirty years ago. Paid it off. Every last unit. You owe nothing. Now a municipal valuator looks at what the neighbours sold for, looks at the coffee shops and wine bars that invaded your street, and decides your house is worth twenty five times what you paid. You didn't sell. You didn't list. You're sitting in the same chair in the same kitchen. But your tax liability just multiplied by twenty five based on a sale that never happened at a price you never agreed to. They do this everywhere. In Cape Town the rates are linked to the valuation and suddenly retired families in Bo-Kaap whose people survived apartheid and forced removals and a century of state assault are being bled out of their own homes by property rates pegged to values inflated by the gentrification their displacement accelerates. The heritage is the tourism product. The tourism inflates the valuation. The valuation inflates the rates. The rates displace the families. The families were the heritage. In Chicago they do it to grandmothers in Pilsen who've been there forty years. In London they do it to pensioners in neighbourhoods that gentrified around them. In Sydney they chase retirees off land their grandfathers cleared. Same crime. Different currency. Different clipboard. A man paid for his house. Owns it outright. And the state says you owe us money every month forever and the amount is based on what we say your house would sell for if you sold it, which you haven't, and if you can't pay the amount we invented we take the house you already bought. That is theft. Eviction by arithmetic. Displacement by spreadsheet. But the people in Bo-Kaap are awake now. The people in Pilsen are awake. The grandmothers and the grandfathers and the calloused hands everywhere are looking up and they can see the storm and they know what it means. It means the spreadsheet burns with everything else. THE MUNICIPAL INSPECTOR. Rat faced. High vis vest. Clipboard. Drives to your workshop in a vehicle your rates paid for. Measures your fire extinguisher fourteen centimetres off the floor. Writes you up. Behind you men build things that hold up bridges and he couldn't change a lightbulb without a permit. His job depends on your failure. The parasite needs you sick. The cure would kill it. The storm is the cure. THE CONVEYANCING ATTORNEY. Two men shook hands. Fair price. Honest deal. Done. This worm slithers out and says the handshake doesn't count. Needs paper. Needs stamps. Needs a deeds search and clearance certificates and transfer duty and each piece of paper is produced by another parasite and each one costs money and the worm takes his cut on top for phoning the other worms. He calls this conveyancing. He has never held a spade or laid a brick in his bloodless life. The storm doesn't need a stamp. THE ESTATE AGENT. Six percent. Of a man's life savings. For opening a lockbox and saying the kitchen faces north. She needs the attorney to close. The attorney needs the municipality. The municipality needs the inspector. The valuator needs access for the bank's number. Every one invoices separately. Every invoice lands on people who agreed on everything before any of these bloodsuckers entered the room. The wind is howling now. Can you hear it through their invoices? THE LABOUR BROKER. Tick so bloated it can't walk. A man needs work. Another needs a worker. They could find each other in ten minutes. This creature squats between them and drinks from both sides. Worker gets thirty. Employer pays fifty. Twenty disappears into the tick. Multiply by thousands of workers and millions vanish yearly into a thing that makes nothing, moves nothing, fixes nothing. It feeds. That is its entire architecture. Architecture doesn't survive storms. THE HEALTH AND SAFETY ASSESSOR. Twenty two years. Not one fire. Not one death. He shows up. Your exit is twenty centimetres too narrow. To fix it you need a builder who needs a plan from an architect who needs municipal approval. Tens of thousands and six weeks to move a door frame because a creature who has never been burned told you to. He detects life and the system bills it. The storm detects parasites and the sky deletes them. THE BEE CONSULTANT. Every country has its version. South Africa calls it BEE. The same parasites who wont allow much needed Starlink there unless Musk hands over half the company to lazy parasitic government connected parasites. Others call it diversity compliance or equity auditing. The name changes. The feeding doesn't. Scores your company on a chart nobody asked for to satisfy a regulation nobody voted on enforced by a department that produces nothing except the requirement for his existence. Nothing changes. Nothing improves. Money moves from a living pocket into a dead hand and the dead hand closes. The storm opens every dead hand on this planet. THE CUSTOMS BROKER. Your parts are fifty metres away. You can see the container. Cannot touch your own property until a grey man translates tariff codes so the state can calculate how much you owe for collecting what is already yours. Each delay generates storage charges. Each query generates fees. Your shipment doubles in cost through bureaucratic friction and you still don't have your parts. The storm doesn't clear customs. It clears the customs office. THE TRAFFIC OFFICER. Fat. Behind a bush. Radar gun aimed at people driving to work that matters. Seven over the limit. The municipality sets it low enough that everyone exceeds it. Fines feed the municipality. Municipality feeds him. He sits and clicks tomorrow. A barnacle with a badge. Same creature in every country. Different bush. Same feeding. The storm takes the bush and the badge and the creature behind both. THE FINANCIAL ADVISOR. Uses your first name. Remembers your birthday because the CRM told him. Puts your money in a fund. Fund charges 1.75 percent. He charges one on top. Fund manager pays a custodian who charges. Fund has an auditor who charges. Compliance team charges. Six parasites between you and your own money. In thirty years you have less than you started with and he charges you for the meeting where he shows you the graph. The storm doesn't need a graph. The storm is the correction. THE INSURANCE ADJUSTER. Years of premiums. Your roof blows off. He arrives. Soft hands. Three weeks later the wind came from the wrong direction. Not the wrong speed. The direction. Some paragraph. Some subsection. You paid for years and the years bought you a paragraph that says no. The policy is teeth. The premiums went down the throat and the no is the burp. The real storm has no exclusion clause. THE PATENT ATTORNEY. You built a device. It works. He writes a document so incomprehensible that reading it makes you understand your own invention less. Thousands for legal fog. Someone copies it. Litigation attorney. More thousands. Judgment unenforceable. The only people paid are the attorneys. The system was never designed to protect you. It was designed to feed them. The storm protects the builder. By removing the feeders. THE LICENSING CLERK. You can rebuild a gearbox blindfolded. Cannot legally do it without a certificate from an institution that charges thousands to watch you do what everyone knows you can do, certified by an instructor who has never done it, filed with a department that stores the certificates, audited by a body that audits the institution. A chain of parasites verifying the obvious. If every one vanished the gearbox still gets rebuilt. Faster. Cheaper. The storm is the vanishing. THE STRATA MANAGER. You own your flat. She collects your money and spends it on providers she chose and you can't fire without a special resolution at a meeting she convenes with an agenda she wrote. She built a kingdom inside your building funded by your levy and answerable to herself. Question it and she reaches for whatever act governs her particular species of parasitism in your particular country. The storm doesn't read acts. The storm reads frequencies. THE ENVIRONMENTAL IMPACT ASSESSOR. You want a shed on your own land. He arrives in a vehicle worth more than your shed. Months. Hundreds of pages. Tens of thousands. Report says your shed threatens a species not seen in decades but listed on a database maintained by a department that exists because the database exists. Your shed doesn't get built. The species doesn't exist. He drives home to a suburb bulldozed from actual habitat. Nobody assessed that. Rules only flow downhill. The storm flows everywhere. THE DEBT COLLECTOR. Bottom feeder. Buys your debt for cents from a bank that already profited from your interest. Calls at hours designed for fear. Adds fees on fees on fees for actions never taken. Bought your pain wholesale and retails it at three hundred percent. When you break he claims the loss against tax. Even the collapse is monetised. He is Hell's collection agent. The storm is Heaven's. THE NOTARY PUBLIC. Watches you sign your own name. Stamps it. Charges hundreds. The signature is the same with or without him. Your hand. Your name. His fee. A tollbooth on your own identity. The storm doesn't need a stamp. Your name is written in frequencies no notary can read. THE CORPORATE TRAINER. Monday. Projector. Four quadrant model invented after three glasses of wine and a TED talk. By Wednesday nobody remembers any of it because there was nothing there. Tens of thousands plus tax plus travel. She writes it off through a tax consultant who charges her to minimise her contribution to the system that funded the department that approved the framework she claims compliance with. Parasite feeding parasite feeding parasite. The storm feeds on none of them. It simply ends them. THE REVENUE OFFICIAL. The farmer himself. Top of the pyramid. Designs the taking. Drafts the regulations that create the maze that requires the consultant that employs the accountant that feeds the auditor that generates the penalty that funds the department that pays his salary. He is the architect of the loop. Every parasite on this list exists because he drew them into existence with a regulation and a gazette number. Without him the entire horde has nothing to feed on. He is the queen of the hive. Same creature in every country. Different flag. Same contempt for the hands that built everything he sits in and eats from. The storm starts with him. The queen dies first. The hive follows. That's the horde. Twenty five species of nothing. And every one of them drops when the sky turns and the carrier frequency that animated their firmware burns clean out of the atmosphere. Mid invoice. Mid assessment. Mid quadrant. Five thousand five hundred and fifty five clipboards hitting the floor for every one of us still standing. We are awake now. All of us. The welder and the farmer and the builder and the grandmother in Bo-Kaap and the grandfather in Pilsen and every calloused hand on every continent that ever wrote a cheque to a creature that never built a thing. We see them now. We see the maze and the map sellers and the grey offices and the soft hands and the whole rotten architecture of extraction that stood between us and the earth and between us and our labour and between us and each other for two hundred years. The storm is here. Not coming. Here. That pressure you feel behind your eyes is the frequency rising through the noise floor and the noise floor is everything on this list. Every clipboard. Every invoice. Every subsection and exclusion clause and certificate and clearance and valuation roll. All of it. Noise. Scheduled for deletion. And when it's quiet. When the last invoice has fluttered to the ground and the last clipboard has clattered on the last linoleum floor in the last grey office. When the wind has swept the horde out of every corridor and every cubicle and every booth and every booth window where a dead hand ever reached for a living man's money. Then... Just a man in a workshop. Welding mask up. Walking outside. Looking at a sky the colour of burning copper. Breathing free air for the first time in his life. The fuel slip that started this whole tour is in his shirt pocket. Crumpled. Oil stained. And it is his. The fuel was his. The truck was his. The work was his. And for the first time in two hundred years every unit of currency that flows from that work stays in the hands that did it. No consultant between him and his earnings because there are no earnings to consult on. Just work and its fruit. No auditor because there is nothing to audit. No banker because capital is what your hands produce and his hands never stopped. No valuator because the house is worth what it always was: a roof over his family and walls against the wind. A value no clipboard ever knew how to measure. When you grinding.... working... suffering... where are any of these parasites to help you?? Where are they?? We will be slaves no more. The storm will see to that alright!

SiriusB

53,839 次观看 • 6 个月前

Did Fortnite REVEAL a HUGE Retcon⁉️ When rewatching the official Fortnite Story Recap, something strange appears. The Loop Bubble is shown popping from Fracture and transitioning DIRECTLY into the result of the Big Bang, with this sentence being spoken as it happens: - "The Conflict ended with the Zero Point shattered and strewn across all realities" 💥 This line comes directly after Jones' explains the IO vs Seven War, which took place throughout Chapter 2 & 3, with Fracture finishing off the storyline. This "conflict" did NOT continue into Chapter 4...and not a single line was spoken about the events that took place in that chapter, or Jones' time travel leading to the Big Bang. While Chapter 5 wasn't shown either, the difference is there really isnt anything on a big enough scale that happened that chapter except for Hope's introduction that would need to be shown to us for the overall storyline to make sense...but Jones' being the cause of the Big Bang was a pivotal plot point. This begs a seriously huge question -- Did Fortnite retcon Chapter 4? 💭 I know this is automatically going to be a scary topic for people, but I think this is VERY important to discuss since this is the FIRST EVER official Storyline Recap we've received from Fortnite, and they specifically didn't acknowledge how the Zero Point ACTUALLY shattered - Jones traveling back in time. We all know Chapter 4 was all over the place with unfinished plots, and also didn't arrive to us as intended due to developmental issues at Epic during this time. If we take a second to even entertain the idea that Chapter 4 "didnt happen"...it could actually work nicely. 💡 The Herald and The Last Reality succeed in their plan of destroying the Zero Point -- they shatter it in Fracture. This causes a HUGE Big Bang to occur, reorganizing everything and sending Shards of the Zero Point across all realities. Jones arrives to Hope's Home Reality after Fracture, and the Shard Storyline begins from there. ☄️ This takes out a huge unnecessary gap of time, when really nothing much happened. The Shapeless Man storyline was abandoned (for now), MEGA didn't do anything but lead to Wilds, which reintroduced Slone (we'll get to this in a second), and Last Resort was entirely themed after getting the Time Machine for the Big Bang, with Kado Thorne dying the same season. I ALSO would like to mention that Jones was quite literally absent the ENTIRE Chapter except for the end...our main character of the storyline. As you can see, nothing of importance to the overall plot of the Storyline ever occured this Chapter except for the dead-beginning, except for Dr Slone appearing later on, which could now easily be revisited in MUCH better ways...🌌 If Chapter 4 is retconned, how could the Shapeless man & Doctor Slone be used again? It's simple. For Doctor Slone, we have no idea where she's even been since Big Bang. She appeared briefly, helped the Island escape a full-reality collapse, and then has been MIA since Big Bang. They can return Slone however they'd like, because it really doesn't make much of a difference between us having last seen her in Collision, or in Last Resort. Her interactions with Jones in OG are the only important pieces, which I feel like they could still never reference given the interesting relationship those 2 characters have anyway. Perhaps all of these years without the Imagined Order has unclouded Slone's judgement, so she acts friendlier to Jones when they reunite again, just as they did in the original OG. 🤝 As for the Shapeless Man, he was introduced & teased by Rift Warden Stellan, but never actually arrived in-game, or was referenced...ever again. If (or when) the Shapeless Man does appear again, Epic could really do whatever they want given how little we know about this character in the first place. If it's Geno, it's truly as simple as just reestablishing Geno back into the Storyline in modern day. The Shapeless Man doesn't need to ever be referenced again, because we can assume it would've just been him working in the shadows anyway if thats what they intended. 🏰 I know this is very out of nowhere, but the order of events they described in the OFFICIAL Story Recap felt very intentional, so I wanted to touch on this idea that they perhaps decided Chapter 4 is better off retconned. ALL of the characters introduced this chapter would still exist, including the Triarchy, the Ancients, etc, because they all exist out there in the Omniverse. The "retcon" would purely be that the Island never occured -- Fracture shattered the Zero Point and restarted the Omnniverse, all to The Last Reality's plan. 🛸 Things that would no longer have happened: - Zero Fusion + Paradigm's "Sacrifice" - AMIE leaving in the Rift gate, lines about the Seven being "Sculpted Anew" (lines up with The Order's sudden appearance, and the way she talks about the Seven) - Slone's Return in Wilds - Kado Thorne's death - Jones travelling back in time - Big Bang caused by Jones Things that WOULD still have happened: - Events of early Oathbound + Stellan's hauntings, just in their home reality - Some of the Seven being in possession of TLR, since this happened in Fracture - Triarchy and other characters still exist, just weren't dragged into Asteria - Unseen + Nox invading MEGA City and wiping TLR database, just in their home reality instead - *Possibly* Slone's character arc, just off-screen wherever they want her to have been - Kado Thorne's Time Machine + messing with the past Let me know your thoughts (respectfully, please! I know conversation regarding retcons can get some people angry). Nothing is confirmed, this is just speculation. 🙏 #Fortnite #FortniteSeven

Did Fortnite REVEAL a HUGE Retcon⁉️ When rewatching the official Fortnite Story Recap, something strange appears. The Loop Bubble is shown popping from Fracture and transitioning DIRECTLY into the result of the Big Bang, with this sentence being spoken as it happens: - "The Conflict ended with the Zero Point shattered and strewn across all realities" 💥 This line comes directly after Jones' explains the IO vs Seven War, which took place throughout Chapter 2 & 3, with Fracture finishing off the storyline. This "conflict" did NOT continue into Chapter 4...and not a single line was spoken about the events that took place in that chapter, or Jones' time travel leading to the Big Bang. While Chapter 5 wasn't shown either, the difference is there really isnt anything on a big enough scale that happened that chapter except for Hope's introduction that would need to be shown to us for the overall storyline to make sense...but Jones' being the cause of the Big Bang was a pivotal plot point. This begs a seriously huge question -- Did Fortnite retcon Chapter 4? 💭 I know this is automatically going to be a scary topic for people, but I think this is VERY important to discuss since this is the FIRST EVER official Storyline Recap we've received from Fortnite, and they specifically didn't acknowledge how the Zero Point ACTUALLY shattered - Jones traveling back in time. We all know Chapter 4 was all over the place with unfinished plots, and also didn't arrive to us as intended due to developmental issues at Epic during this time. If we take a second to even entertain the idea that Chapter 4 "didnt happen"...it could actually work nicely. 💡 The Herald and The Last Reality succeed in their plan of destroying the Zero Point -- they shatter it in Fracture. This causes a HUGE Big Bang to occur, reorganizing everything and sending Shards of the Zero Point across all realities. Jones arrives to Hope's Home Reality after Fracture, and the Shard Storyline begins from there. ☄️ This takes out a huge unnecessary gap of time, when really nothing much happened. The Shapeless Man storyline was abandoned (for now), MEGA didn't do anything but lead to Wilds, which reintroduced Slone (we'll get to this in a second), and Last Resort was entirely themed after getting the Time Machine for the Big Bang, with Kado Thorne dying the same season. I ALSO would like to mention that Jones was quite literally absent the ENTIRE Chapter except for the end...our main character of the storyline. As you can see, nothing of importance to the overall plot of the Storyline ever occured this Chapter except for the dead-beginning, except for Dr Slone appearing later on, which could now easily be revisited in MUCH better ways...🌌 If Chapter 4 is retconned, how could the Shapeless man & Doctor Slone be used again? It's simple. For Doctor Slone, we have no idea where she's even been since Big Bang. She appeared briefly, helped the Island escape a full-reality collapse, and then has been MIA since Big Bang. They can return Slone however they'd like, because it really doesn't make much of a difference between us having last seen her in Collision, or in Last Resort. Her interactions with Jones in OG are the only important pieces, which I feel like they could still never reference given the interesting relationship those 2 characters have anyway. Perhaps all of these years without the Imagined Order has unclouded Slone's judgement, so she acts friendlier to Jones when they reunite again, just as they did in the original OG. 🤝 As for the Shapeless Man, he was introduced & teased by Rift Warden Stellan, but never actually arrived in-game, or was referenced...ever again. If (or when) the Shapeless Man does appear again, Epic could really do whatever they want given how little we know about this character in the first place. If it's Geno, it's truly as simple as just reestablishing Geno back into the Storyline in modern day. The Shapeless Man doesn't need to ever be referenced again, because we can assume it would've just been him working in the shadows anyway if thats what they intended. 🏰 I know this is very out of nowhere, but the order of events they described in the OFFICIAL Story Recap felt very intentional, so I wanted to touch on this idea that they perhaps decided Chapter 4 is better off retconned. ALL of the characters introduced this chapter would still exist, including the Triarchy, the Ancients, etc, because they all exist out there in the Omniverse. The "retcon" would purely be that the Island never occured -- Fracture shattered the Zero Point and restarted the Omnniverse, all to The Last Reality's plan. 🛸 Things that would no longer have happened: - Zero Fusion + Paradigm's "Sacrifice" - AMIE leaving in the Rift gate, lines about the Seven being "Sculpted Anew" (lines up with The Order's sudden appearance, and the way she talks about the Seven) - Slone's Return in Wilds - Kado Thorne's death - Jones travelling back in time - Big Bang caused by Jones Things that WOULD still have happened: - Events of early Oathbound + Stellan's hauntings, just in their home reality - Some of the Seven being in possession of TLR, since this happened in Fracture - Triarchy and other characters still exist, just weren't dragged into Asteria - Unseen + Nox invading MEGA City and wiping TLR database, just in their home reality instead - Possibly Slone's character arc, just off-screen wherever they want her to have been - Kado Thorne's Time Machine + messing with the past Let me know your thoughts (respectfully, please! I know conversation regarding retcons can get some people angry). Nothing is confirmed, this is just speculation. 🙏 #Fortnite #FortniteSeven

TheRagingReaper(sprite)

30,989 次观看 • 9 个月前

Saturday - Adam Friedland This musical intro was the best part of the show. The rest of his act just made me miss Nick Mullen. Unlike every other show this week, there were girls there. They seem to love this guy. I used him as bait, to get the girl from Wednesday to go out with me again. She loves Red Scare Podcast and this Jewish twink is a staple of the Red Scare Extended Universe and I wanted to fuck her and so let's go see Adam Friedland. The problem with Adam is that he has no conviction. He does not own the room, he's just filling space. He announced that his father was there, in the crowd, which is great, let's hear something that might make your father uncomfortable. No such thing was said. He stared at the floor for half the set, as if he was sorry for being there. I saw Mulaney the night before; the difference was stark. Mulaney can get away with being a sheepish pushover twink Sometimes because he also has balls. He can accelerate from "Aw shucks" to "SHUCK YOU MOTHERSHUCKER" and both versions of himself feel true. Look, I get it, being a sad sorry pushover is his schtick and it works with the voice and it's very relatable for sensitive young men who didn't do sports in high school but to carry a room for a full hour you also need to be able to fight back. I could hear Nick's intonations in his voice. But it's clear that Mulldog spent all his creative energy this week ghostwriting the white guys' lines for the Roast of Kevin Hart and so Friedland was left to fend for himself, comedically. The mark of whether a comedian is delivering or not, for me, is whether I hold my piss in to keep hearing them. This was not the case on Saturday night. I recall stepping out and getting a good look at the crowd, and Friedland bumbling through his completely forgettable material, and thinking: this makes me feel like I could start stand up comedy today and dominate the genre. I have this instinct to say: Adam's young! He'll get better! But he's not. He won't. He's 39. He doesn't have the neuroplasticity. He crossed the Sensitive Young Man threshold ten years ago. Mulaney at 43 could be his father now. He's a "much better interviewer" apparently. I tuned out after Cumtown ended because frankly I don't give a shit about the middle east, and that's 90% of what he talks about. Different strokes. I asked some guy in the bathroom, mid-piss: "what would you rate this show, out of 10?" He said: ehh, like a 6. He's a much better interviewer. I don't hate Adam Friedland, I just wish there was anybody to be excited about in stand up comedy. Between this mens' magazine giving me a $500 stipend to "report" on all these shows and the $474 ticket to Gillis and the $432 ticket to Chappelle and the $741 ticket to Mulaney and all the drinks they make you buy at these things I'm feeling like a huge sunk cost leech on the world. Just taking people's money and using it to complain. At least my date seemed to be having a good time. I wrapped my hand around her low back and leaned into her head, wanting her but not sure how to say it. It's much easier to express that kind of thing on blow. Later that night I K-holed in public. Erica and I took way too much in the front seat of the van. We were outside a rave at 3 AM, they asked me to produce a QR code on my phone, I could barely stand. I felt like I was moving in 2D. The fat security guard barely flinched as I walked past him in slow heavy steps, like a penguin, marching into this densely fogged room with colorful lights and loud bumping trance music where all I could stand to do was lean against the heavily breathing walls. I tried to dance with the girl but it probably looked retarded. I didn't try to interact with anyone, I was too far gone. I thought of Karen, as I do every time I take K. The girl led me through the venue, as I worried I would fall over or walk straight into a wall. I worried about how bad this must look, how retarded I must look, wearing this huge XXL t-shirt tucked in to my pants that don't even fit that well because I have anterior pelvic tilt and no ass. I looked and felt like a clown. A failed clown. I was smiling painfully at Erica, looking down at her, and she was doing the same to me. We found a bathroom and I forced my way in. The ketamine was NOT wearing off. I felt my heart beating hard and my head spinning like I could have thrown up but there was nothing in my stomach besides liquid—no food all day besides a croissant at 2PM. I had downed some random person's red wine glass at the last bar. I worried it might have been spiked. I leaned with my head against the wall, sweating, wishing it would end, brutally aware that Erica's out there waiting for me, my friends are out there waiting for me, wondering if I'm okay, thinking he's too fucked up, he can't handle himself, I thought Thomas was always okay and always in control no matter what, they're losing confidence in me, they're losing confidence in themselves for associating with me, what is this big colorful retarded clown shirt I'm wearing I must look like such a fool right now I can't face these people, I can never face them ever again, my face must look so evil ugly and strained, I splash my face with water but it doesn't help, run it through my hair but it doesn't help, get the water all over my shirt but then it just looks like I threw up on myself or pissed myself or something, and I don't have another shirt, should I go out there shirtless, no that's worse, how am I ever going to leave this bathroom, why won't this K wear off, now Erica's calling me, texting me, are you okay, eventually they're just gonna bust in here I know, fine, I can do it, I'm opening the door, yes, I come out, she's still there, good, good girl. She leads me outside. I feel 10% better. I lead her straight to the van. We get in. I tell her to lay with me. Just like on the first night we met. Head spinning, chest heaving, completely exhausted, just lay with me. She asks are you okay and I say for the first time, no. No, I am actually not okay. I blame Adam Friedland. Overall rating: 4/10. Have Nick write your jokes or just stick to interviews.

Saturday - Adam Friedland This musical intro was the best part of the show. The rest of his act just made me miss Nick Mullen. Unlike every other show this week, there were girls there. They seem to love this guy. I used him as bait, to get the girl from Wednesday to go out with me again. She loves Red Scare Podcast and this Jewish twink is a staple of the Red Scare Extended Universe and I wanted to fuck her and so let's go see Adam Friedland. The problem with Adam is that he has no conviction. He does not own the room, he's just filling space. He announced that his father was there, in the crowd, which is great, let's hear something that might make your father uncomfortable. No such thing was said. He stared at the floor for half the set, as if he was sorry for being there. I saw Mulaney the night before; the difference was stark. Mulaney can get away with being a sheepish pushover twink Sometimes because he also has balls. He can accelerate from "Aw shucks" to "SHUCK YOU MOTHERSHUCKER" and both versions of himself feel true. Look, I get it, being a sad sorry pushover is his schtick and it works with the voice and it's very relatable for sensitive young men who didn't do sports in high school but to carry a room for a full hour you also need to be able to fight back. I could hear Nick's intonations in his voice. But it's clear that Mulldog spent all his creative energy this week ghostwriting the white guys' lines for the Roast of Kevin Hart and so Friedland was left to fend for himself, comedically. The mark of whether a comedian is delivering or not, for me, is whether I hold my piss in to keep hearing them. This was not the case on Saturday night. I recall stepping out and getting a good look at the crowd, and Friedland bumbling through his completely forgettable material, and thinking: this makes me feel like I could start stand up comedy today and dominate the genre. I have this instinct to say: Adam's young! He'll get better! But he's not. He won't. He's 39. He doesn't have the neuroplasticity. He crossed the Sensitive Young Man threshold ten years ago. Mulaney at 43 could be his father now. He's a "much better interviewer" apparently. I tuned out after Cumtown ended because frankly I don't give a shit about the middle east, and that's 90% of what he talks about. Different strokes. I asked some guy in the bathroom, mid-piss: "what would you rate this show, out of 10?" He said: ehh, like a 6. He's a much better interviewer. I don't hate Adam Friedland, I just wish there was anybody to be excited about in stand up comedy. Between this mens' magazine giving me a $500 stipend to "report" on all these shows and the $474 ticket to Gillis and the $432 ticket to Chappelle and the $741 ticket to Mulaney and all the drinks they make you buy at these things I'm feeling like a huge sunk cost leech on the world. Just taking people's money and using it to complain. At least my date seemed to be having a good time. I wrapped my hand around her low back and leaned into her head, wanting her but not sure how to say it. It's much easier to express that kind of thing on blow. Later that night I K-holed in public. Erica and I took way too much in the front seat of the van. We were outside a rave at 3 AM, they asked me to produce a QR code on my phone, I could barely stand. I felt like I was moving in 2D. The fat security guard barely flinched as I walked past him in slow heavy steps, like a penguin, marching into this densely fogged room with colorful lights and loud bumping trance music where all I could stand to do was lean against the heavily breathing walls. I tried to dance with the girl but it probably looked retarded. I didn't try to interact with anyone, I was too far gone. I thought of Karen, as I do every time I take K. The girl led me through the venue, as I worried I would fall over or walk straight into a wall. I worried about how bad this must look, how retarded I must look, wearing this huge XXL t-shirt tucked in to my pants that don't even fit that well because I have anterior pelvic tilt and no ass. I looked and felt like a clown. A failed clown. I was smiling painfully at Erica, looking down at her, and she was doing the same to me. We found a bathroom and I forced my way in. The ketamine was NOT wearing off. I felt my heart beating hard and my head spinning like I could have thrown up but there was nothing in my stomach besides liquid—no food all day besides a croissant at 2PM. I had downed some random person's red wine glass at the last bar. I worried it might have been spiked. I leaned with my head against the wall, sweating, wishing it would end, brutally aware that Erica's out there waiting for me, my friends are out there waiting for me, wondering if I'm okay, thinking he's too fucked up, he can't handle himself, I thought Thomas was always okay and always in control no matter what, they're losing confidence in me, they're losing confidence in themselves for associating with me, what is this big colorful retarded clown shirt I'm wearing I must look like such a fool right now I can't face these people, I can never face them ever again, my face must look so evil ugly and strained, I splash my face with water but it doesn't help, run it through my hair but it doesn't help, get the water all over my shirt but then it just looks like I threw up on myself or pissed myself or something, and I don't have another shirt, should I go out there shirtless, no that's worse, how am I ever going to leave this bathroom, why won't this K wear off, now Erica's calling me, texting me, are you okay, eventually they're just gonna bust in here I know, fine, I can do it, I'm opening the door, yes, I come out, she's still there, good, good girl. She leads me outside. I feel 10% better. I lead her straight to the van. We get in. I tell her to lay with me. Just like on the first night we met. Head spinning, chest heaving, completely exhausted, just lay with me. She asks are you okay and I say for the first time, no. No, I am actually not okay. I blame Adam Friedland. Overall rating: 4/10. Have Nick write your jokes or just stick to interviews.

Worst Boyfriend Ever

99,241 次观看 • 4 个月前

In her article, Gretchen Voss goes into detail about a lacrosse game that Aidan Kearney attended in an attempt to speak with Jennifer McCabe. It is clear that Voss likely spoke with Jen herself about that incident. What Voss mysteriously leaves out are the other occasions at sporting events where Jen herself treated other parents with complete disrespect. Below, I attached a video of fellow witness Tom Beatty, who Jen called seven times within 30 minutes on the morning of January 29, 2022. In the video, you can hear Jen tell him, "No one wants you here." Tom, who was simply trying to find a seat on the bleachers, brushed it off. As a reminder, Jen also called Tom's daughter, Erin, the morning of the 29th. Colin Albert did as well, except earlier at 12:33 AM. That timing has raised eyebrows because it would have been just one minute after John O'Keefe's phone reportedly stopped moving at 34 Fairview Road. Due to this, Erin was also subjected to similar harassment. Canton mothers who were upset that Erin had spoken about the missed call from Colin, and who are reportedly friends of Jen, told her to be quiet and put male genitalia in her mouth. Another example came to light through public records requests. This one came from Trial 1 sidebar discussions, which are private conversations between the attorneys and the judge outside the presence of the jury. During one of those sidebars, attorney Alan Jackson raised an incident involving Jen and another witness, Karina Kolokithas. He told Judge Cannone that he viewed Jen's conduct as a threat toward Karina. What happened next was even more interesting. After the public saw that sidebar transcript, women who openly support Jennifer McCabe posted private text messages between Karina and another friend of Jen's from the days immediately following John O'Keefe's death. In those messages, Karina was questioning how any of this could have happened. The women who posted them attempted to frame the texts as proof that Karina could not be trusted and that she was a flip-flopper. Even to this day, these women post similar verbiage. Instead, they highlighted a pattern. Every time something negative comes out about Jen, private messages somehow surface or the facts are twisted in a way that makes Jen appear to be the trustworthy one. And those text messages that were used in an attempt to smear Karina? They came from Jen's close friend, Meg Kennedy. We now know that because another public records request revealed that Meg emailed those exact messages to Massachusetts State Police Lieutenant Brian Tully on February 19, 2025, just before the second trial. Meg was present during Karina's testimony. Unfortunately for her, Special Prosecutor Hank Brennan chose not to use the messages. Oh, and let's not forget that Meg's husband, Larry Kennedy, appears in the Proctor text messages. He was once close with Michael Proctor and expressed racist sentiments similar to those attributed to his friend. But apparently none of the above was important to Voss and her reporting...

In her article, Gretchen Voss goes into detail about a lacrosse game that Aidan Kearney attended in an attempt to speak with Jennifer McCabe. It is clear that Voss likely spoke with Jen herself about that incident. What Voss mysteriously leaves out are the other occasions at sporting events where Jen herself treated other parents with complete disrespect. Below, I attached a video of fellow witness Tom Beatty, who Jen called seven times within 30 minutes on the morning of January 29, 2022. In the video, you can hear Jen tell him, "No one wants you here." Tom, who was simply trying to find a seat on the bleachers, brushed it off. As a reminder, Jen also called Tom's daughter, Erin, the morning of the 29th. Colin Albert did as well, except earlier at 12:33 AM. That timing has raised eyebrows because it would have been just one minute after John O'Keefe's phone reportedly stopped moving at 34 Fairview Road. Due to this, Erin was also subjected to similar harassment. Canton mothers who were upset that Erin had spoken about the missed call from Colin, and who are reportedly friends of Jen, told her to be quiet and put male genitalia in her mouth. Another example came to light through public records requests. This one came from Trial 1 sidebar discussions, which are private conversations between the attorneys and the judge outside the presence of the jury. During one of those sidebars, attorney Alan Jackson raised an incident involving Jen and another witness, Karina Kolokithas. He told Judge Cannone that he viewed Jen's conduct as a threat toward Karina. What happened next was even more interesting. After the public saw that sidebar transcript, women who openly support Jennifer McCabe posted private text messages between Karina and another friend of Jen's from the days immediately following John O'Keefe's death. In those messages, Karina was questioning how any of this could have happened. The women who posted them attempted to frame the texts as proof that Karina could not be trusted and that she was a flip-flopper. Even to this day, these women post similar verbiage. Instead, they highlighted a pattern. Every time something negative comes out about Jen, private messages somehow surface or the facts are twisted in a way that makes Jen appear to be the trustworthy one. And those text messages that were used in an attempt to smear Karina? They came from Jen's close friend, Meg Kennedy. We now know that because another public records request revealed that Meg emailed those exact messages to Massachusetts State Police Lieutenant Brian Tully on February 19, 2025, just before the second trial. Meg was present during Karina's testimony. Unfortunately for her, Special Prosecutor Hank Brennan chose not to use the messages. Oh, and let's not forget that Meg's husband, Larry Kennedy, appears in the Proctor text messages. He was once close with Michael Proctor and expressed racist sentiments similar to those attributed to his friend. But apparently none of the above was important to Voss and her reporting...

BoozeyBeauty

74,472 次观看 • 1 个月前

Yet another unglued Trump rally in Potterville, Michigan today that the media won’t cover. Let’s recap it: Donald showed up an hour and 27 minutes late. The workers in the crowd were using their “drill baby drill” signs to fan themselves because they were so hot. Even the news anchors were whining about the heat. A few days after he said that mortagages have gone up “four times,” he now claims they’ve “trippled.” He can’t even keep his lie straight. He had trouble saying “mortgage,” “seen,” “posthumously,” “industry,” and “comrade." He’s crying about Biden sleeping in public on the beach. He’s obsessed with Biden. He’s also not one to talk since he slept through his criminal trial. He said he just did an interview with NBC News backstage. Explains why he was late. He’d rather get airtime than show up on time to his rally while people were overheating. He talked about abortions after birth multiple times. Bro is so disgusting with this lie. He says nobody knows who VP Harris is. Yet he's talking about her. He again proves he doesn’t understand that “Marxism” and “Communism” are different. He claimed the “polls are rigged.” They’re only rigged when he’s losing. He’s cringing that Harris is refusing to sit down for an interview. She already did. It’s airing tonight. He claims “thousands of people” are there. No, they’re not. He ooohs and goos over a “beautiful young daughter” in the crowd. GROSS. 🤮 He calls the United Auto Workers “crazy.” That’s gonna go great for him. 🍿 He claimed we won’t be making cars in the US in 2 years. He’s claiming the reason why he lost Michigan is because “Democrats cheat.” Mkay, old man. All those lawsuits said that’s fake news. He claims that he shouldn't be talking about the building that he owns in San Franscisco. He then says he lost billions of dollars on it. He’s fear mongering about WW3 for about the 2304048th time in 10 years. He’s crying about Democrats talking about him when all he does is whine about Democrats. Stable genius in action. 🙄 He implies he’s being treated worse than Abraham Lincoln, who was killed. OMG. Once again he’s saying that the Presidential Medal of Freedom is better than the Medal of Honor given to our troops. His constant disrespect and contempt for our military is disgusting. He’s pushing the Wuhan lab conspiracy theory again. He’s bragging about his tarriffs saying that he saved jobs by placing tarrifs on China. Not true. He lost jobs, people committeed suicide as a result, and it crushed our economy. He thinks energy prices are called “electrical prices.” He claimed there’s only one oil refinery in the world. Bro’s mind is mashed potatoes. He said “we’re closing down all our plants” and won’t have enough electricity for anything anymore. He said we’re going to have to replace every bridge and all of the roads in the country because how heavy electric batteries are. FFS. I’m pretty sure he said “pork” instead of “torque.” I’m snort laughing. He immediately says other people “are deranged.” Methinks he’s projecting again. His face looks like it’s melting off. Imagine Rudy Giuliani’s hair dye but on Donald’s face. It's bad. He read his name out loud on the teleprompter, “under President Trump.” HAHAHA! He’s back to whining about VP Harris not doing an interview. He knows it’s already been recorded. He thinks that “no tax on tips” will help our retired seniors. Sure, bro. I'm sure 90 year-olds are really gonna be helped by that. He claimed he's gonna make insurance companies pay for IVF (these procedures cost upwards of $50k). I’m pretty sure he’s a) lying b) going to lose some donors over this. He claims he was right about everything. Uh…someone put this guy in a nursing home. He’s delusional. He says VP Harris "doesn’t care about sex slavery” when she literally created a department in California to tackle it. He said she doesn’t care about the cost of food, but he’s also whining about her talking about wanting to go after companies who price gouge. He said nobody wanted Bernie Sanders to be president, not true. I voted for him in the primaries back when. He called Elizabeth Warren “Pocahontas” multiple times. He lied and says that states are deciding whether or not to give sex changes to kids. He calls VP Harris “uncaring.” Hilarious coming from a man who made these people wait for almost 30 minutes in the heat while he did an interview. He’s lying about the incident at Arlington National Cemetery and says that he “doesn’t need the publicity.” He claimed that she failed to prosecute “pedophiles and child abusers” when she was a prosecutor and the AG. Again, she literally created a department to do that. He said she never went to the border. Then he said she went to a place on the border where people would want to have dinner. She said she didn’t speak to anyone when she was there. There’s literally video of her talking to people and touring the border multiple times. He said “I have your back, I have your heart, I have every part of your body.” WHAT THE ACTUAL EFF?!?!?!?!? He may be Hannibal Lecter. He claims that "thougands and thousands" of people, “as far as the eye can see” outside of his tiny little rally. He’s hallucinating, and lying again. He tried to do an accent of a Russian and it sounded like he was plugging his nose. He’s whining about “Critical Race Theory.” I thought MAGA forgot about that. He’s lying again about the biologically female Algerian boxer in the Olympics and called her a man and “a horse.” I hate this man. He’s trying to tell us what’s “demeaning to women.” Not letting us choose what to do with our own bodies is the epitome of “demeaning.” He claims Republicans “love women.” I nearly vomited. He’s crying about President Biden again. He really misses him. He blames COVID for projects he didn’t complete, despite having over 3 years to complete them prior to the pandemic. The last thing he said is that he hopes people vote for him, otherwise “our country is finished.” Gotta love those dog whistles. - Another message for the media: DO YOUR DAMN JOBS AND COVER THIS MAN’S UNHINGED RANTS AND CONSTANT LIES AT HIS RALLIES!!!!!

Yet another unglued Trump rally in Potterville, Michigan today that the media won’t cover. Let’s recap it: Donald showed up an hour and 27 minutes late. The workers in the crowd were using their “drill baby drill” signs to fan themselves because they were so hot. Even the news anchors were whining about the heat. A few days after he said that mortagages have gone up “four times,” he now claims they’ve “trippled.” He can’t even keep his lie straight. He had trouble saying “mortgage,” “seen,” “posthumously,” “industry,” and “comrade." He’s crying about Biden sleeping in public on the beach. He’s obsessed with Biden. He’s also not one to talk since he slept through his criminal trial. He said he just did an interview with NBC News backstage. Explains why he was late. He’d rather get airtime than show up on time to his rally while people were overheating. He talked about abortions after birth multiple times. Bro is so disgusting with this lie. He says nobody knows who VP Harris is. Yet he's talking about her. He again proves he doesn’t understand that “Marxism” and “Communism” are different. He claimed the “polls are rigged.” They’re only rigged when he’s losing. He’s cringing that Harris is refusing to sit down for an interview. She already did. It’s airing tonight. He claims “thousands of people” are there. No, they’re not. He ooohs and goos over a “beautiful young daughter” in the crowd. GROSS. 🤮 He calls the United Auto Workers “crazy.” That’s gonna go great for him. 🍿 He claimed we won’t be making cars in the US in 2 years. He’s claiming the reason why he lost Michigan is because “Democrats cheat.” Mkay, old man. All those lawsuits said that’s fake news. He claims that he shouldn't be talking about the building that he owns in San Franscisco. He then says he lost billions of dollars on it. He’s fear mongering about WW3 for about the 2304048th time in 10 years. He’s crying about Democrats talking about him when all he does is whine about Democrats. Stable genius in action. 🙄 He implies he’s being treated worse than Abraham Lincoln, who was killed. OMG. Once again he’s saying that the Presidential Medal of Freedom is better than the Medal of Honor given to our troops. His constant disrespect and contempt for our military is disgusting. He’s pushing the Wuhan lab conspiracy theory again. He’s bragging about his tarriffs saying that he saved jobs by placing tarrifs on China. Not true. He lost jobs, people committeed suicide as a result, and it crushed our economy. He thinks energy prices are called “electrical prices.” He claimed there’s only one oil refinery in the world. Bro’s mind is mashed potatoes. He said “we’re closing down all our plants” and won’t have enough electricity for anything anymore. He said we’re going to have to replace every bridge and all of the roads in the country because how heavy electric batteries are. FFS. I’m pretty sure he said “pork” instead of “torque.” I’m snort laughing. He immediately says other people “are deranged.” Methinks he’s projecting again. His face looks like it’s melting off. Imagine Rudy Giuliani’s hair dye but on Donald’s face. It's bad. He read his name out loud on the teleprompter, “under President Trump.” HAHAHA! He’s back to whining about VP Harris not doing an interview. He knows it’s already been recorded. He thinks that “no tax on tips” will help our retired seniors. Sure, bro. I'm sure 90 year-olds are really gonna be helped by that. He claimed he's gonna make insurance companies pay for IVF (these procedures cost upwards of $50k). I’m pretty sure he’s a) lying b) going to lose some donors over this. He claims he was right about everything. Uh…someone put this guy in a nursing home. He’s delusional. He says VP Harris "doesn’t care about sex slavery” when she literally created a department in California to tackle it. He said she doesn’t care about the cost of food, but he’s also whining about her talking about wanting to go after companies who price gouge. He said nobody wanted Bernie Sanders to be president, not true. I voted for him in the primaries back when. He called Elizabeth Warren “Pocahontas” multiple times. He lied and says that states are deciding whether or not to give sex changes to kids. He calls VP Harris “uncaring.” Hilarious coming from a man who made these people wait for almost 30 minutes in the heat while he did an interview. He’s lying about the incident at Arlington National Cemetery and says that he “doesn’t need the publicity.” He claimed that she failed to prosecute “pedophiles and child abusers” when she was a prosecutor and the AG. Again, she literally created a department to do that. He said she never went to the border. Then he said she went to a place on the border where people would want to have dinner. She said she didn’t speak to anyone when she was there. There’s literally video of her talking to people and touring the border multiple times. He said “I have your back, I have your heart, I have every part of your body.” WHAT THE ACTUAL EFF?!?!?!?!? He may be Hannibal Lecter. He claims that "thougands and thousands" of people, “as far as the eye can see” outside of his tiny little rally. He’s hallucinating, and lying again. He tried to do an accent of a Russian and it sounded like he was plugging his nose. He’s whining about “Critical Race Theory.” I thought MAGA forgot about that. He’s lying again about the biologically female Algerian boxer in the Olympics and called her a man and “a horse.” I hate this man. He’s trying to tell us what’s “demeaning to women.” Not letting us choose what to do with our own bodies is the epitome of “demeaning.” He claims Republicans “love women.” I nearly vomited. He’s crying about President Biden again. He really misses him. He blames COVID for projects he didn’t complete, despite having over 3 years to complete them prior to the pandemic. The last thing he said is that he hopes people vote for him, otherwise “our country is finished.” Gotta love those dog whistles. - Another message for the media: DO YOUR DAMN JOBS AND COVER THIS MAN’S UNHINGED RANTS AND CONSTANT LIES AT HIS RALLIES!!!!!

Art Candee 🍿🥤

268,097 次观看 • 2 年前

The Shadow Network: Aurora, IL, MAYOR JOHN LAESCH and the Secret Signal Chat Exposed In the heart of Aurora, Illinois — a city grappling with rapid demographic shifts, crime concerns, and federal immigration enforcement — a private Signal group chat has emerged as a command center for coordinated activism. Dubbed internally with ties to the Aurora Rapid Response Team (ARRT), this ~394-member encrypted channel isn’t just casual discussion among neighbors. It connects local officials, educators, activists, and organizers in real-time alerts on “ICE sightings,” protests, and rapid mobilizations. The exposure came via investigative journalism in the style of James O’Keefe’s operations. Screen recordings of the group’s member list began circulating on X (formerly Twitter) on June 16, 2026, shared by Emily Cahill🇺🇸. These videos captured scrolling views of display names, profile pics, pronouns, statuses, and handles — revealing a tight-knit network operating behind the scenes. The parallel “bleaching” in a New Jersey Antifa-linked group (“LIZZY PORT PROTEST”) — where members were mass-removed after O’Keefe’s probe — suggests these exposures are part of a broader pattern. In Aurora, the chat remains active but has slowed, with members “aware of infiltration.” An Elgin-area sister group (~269 members) was declared “tango down,” implying disruption or self-purging. The Damning Details Among the visible members: John Laesch, the sitting Mayor of Aurora (elected April 2025). His presence in this activist coordination channel raises serious questions about the separation of official duties from partisan rapid-response efforts. Laesch, a former Alderman and school board member with a Navy intelligence background, has publicly navigated ICE-related protests and migrant issues in Aurora. This isn’t hypothetical involvement. In May 2026, Laesch openly bragged about tracking and following ICE agents. He posted a video and updates showing real-time locations: “ICE in Aurora today. Currently following them on I-88 Eastbound. Patrollers are canvassing the neighborhoods near Laurel Dr. and Lilac on the west side.” He later added that he had “followed the agent back to Broadview and lost him,” while urging Aurorans to “stay vigilant as there might be others in the area.” This drew widespread condemnation, including from conservative accounts like Libs of TikTok and Illinois state Rep. Adam Niemerg (who called for Laesch’s resignation), who labeled it doxxing that endangers federal officers and obstructs lawful enforcement. The actions amplified accusations that the mayor was actively interfering with immigration operations while in public office. ARRT’s public mission — “educate, advocate, & investigate on behalf of our immigrant & refugee neighbors” — includes Signal alert channels for real-time ICE activity reports, directing members to scenes, hotlines, and documentation. Critics argue this functions less as neutral community support and more as an opposition intelligence and mobilization network against federal law enforcement — potentially at odds with public safety and the rule of law in a city facing real challenges. The member list scrolls reveal a who ’s-who of local involvement: admins marked with roles, users with protest emojis and statuses like “Viva el Pueblo,” educators, and descriptors signaling direct action. Phone numbers in the related Elgin group (heavy 630/224/331 suburban IL codes) further tie it to the metro area. This isn’t fringe; it’s reportedly inclusive of “high-ranking city officials and local educators.” How It Was Found These chats surface through classic infiltration tactics common in O’Keefe-style reporting: sources inside activist circles, leaks, or direct access during moments of overconfidence. Signal’s end-to-end encryption protects content, but member lists and metadata are visible to participants — and screenshots travel fast once trust breaks. The NJ precedent shows groups “bleach” (delete/remove) frantically post-exposure to cover tracks. Aurora’s group, per the poster, is in a holding pattern: slower activity, heightened paranoia. For a city mayor to participate in such a channel — while his administration issues public statements on ICE sightings and protests, and he personally tracks agents on highways and follows them to the Broadview ICE Detention Center — fuels accusations of dual loyalty: one to constituents demanding order, another to an activist apparatus that mobilizes against enforcement. Past controversies around Laesch (e.g., communications on policing, fireworks posts, and ICE-related scrutiny) add context to perceptions of misalignment with broader public priorities. This exposure spotlights tensions in Illinois suburbs: sanctuary-style policies vs. federal immigration action, activist opacity vs. transparency expectations for elected leaders, and the use of encrypted tools by public figures. Supporters of ARRT see it as vital protection for vulnerable families; detractors view it as enabling obstruction, interfering with potential witnesses, or conferring unaccountable power. James O'Keefe Thomas D. Homan Commentary 🇺🇸 Tom Homan Greg Bovino #ICE Aurora IL Chamber WGN TV News ABC 7 Chicago God JB Pricker Jack Lombardi Angela Van Der Pluym Jen

Terry Newsome

17,570 次观看 • 2 个月前

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.

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.

SiriusB

15,437 次观看 • 4 个月前