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Back and forth, back and forth Tail goes swish... as you sink Good drones drop, never stop... #drone #dronification #hypnosis #hypno #tail #spiral #tailnosis #swish #sink #drop #yiff #vrchat #vrc #latex #shiny #hypnokink #furry

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Angelic / AD-01 🔞

3,075 subscribers

13,882 просмотров • 5 месяцев назад •via X (Twitter)

#drone#dronification#hypnosis#hypno#tail#spiral#tailnosis#swish#sink#drop#yiff#vrchat#vrc#latex#shiny#hypnokink#furry
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The 𝟒-𝟓-𝟏 custom tactics are back and I’ve never had as much fun in attack since the game came out💀 #FC24 I must have 30 clips from play offs, so good on the counter and in attacking possession. If you can test the tactics and give feedback tonight drop a comment⬇️
0:08

The 𝟒-𝟓-𝟏 custom tactics are back and I’ve never had as much fun in attack since the game came out💀 #FC24 I must have 30 clips from play offs, so good on the counter and in attacking possession. If you can test the tactics and give feedback tonight drop a comment⬇️

FTD - EAFC Trader/Creator

111,166 просмотров • 2 лет назад

"She Thought Her Family Had Come Back—Until the Shelter Gate Closed Again The sound of footsteps echoed through the shelter, and a small Beagle named Daisy sprang to her feet. Her floppy ears perked up. Her tail whipped back and forth so fast her whole body wiggled with excitement. She pressed against the kennel door, watching a family stop only a few feet away. For one beautiful moment... She was certain they were there for her. She stretched her nose through the bars and let out a soft, hopeful whine. The little girl smiled. The father knelt down. Daisy's tail wagged even faster. Then the shelter volunteer opened the kennel across the aisle. A shy mixed-breed dog named Rusty stepped out. The family clipped a lead onto him and walked toward the exit. Daisy followed them as far as the kennel would allow, her eyes never leaving the little girl. She waited for them to turn around. Surely they had forgotten her. Surely they would come back. The front door opened. Then it closed. The shelter grew quiet again. Daisy stood there for another minute before slowly lying down on her blanket. Her tail stopped moving. She rested her chin between her front paws and stared at the empty walkway where the family had disappeared. No whining. No scratching at the gate. Just quiet disappointment. Imagine believing your forever family was only a few steps away... Only to watch them leave with someone else. Tonight, Daisy will curl up in the same corner she's slept in for months, waking every time she hears new visitors walk through the shelter doors. Because somewhere deep inside, she still believes the next family might finally be hers. Every shelter has dogs like Daisy. They're not asking for perfection. They're simply waiting for one person to choose them.
0:12

"She Thought Her Family Had Come Back—Until the Shelter Gate Closed Again The sound of footsteps echoed through the shelter, and a small Beagle named Daisy sprang to her feet. Her floppy ears perked up. Her tail whipped back and forth so fast her whole body wiggled with excitement. She pressed against the kennel door, watching a family stop only a few feet away. For one beautiful moment... She was certain they were there for her. She stretched her nose through the bars and let out a soft, hopeful whine. The little girl smiled. The father knelt down. Daisy's tail wagged even faster. Then the shelter volunteer opened the kennel across the aisle. A shy mixed-breed dog named Rusty stepped out. The family clipped a lead onto him and walked toward the exit. Daisy followed them as far as the kennel would allow, her eyes never leaving the little girl. She waited for them to turn around. Surely they had forgotten her. Surely they would come back. The front door opened. Then it closed. The shelter grew quiet again. Daisy stood there for another minute before slowly lying down on her blanket. Her tail stopped moving. She rested her chin between her front paws and stared at the empty walkway where the family had disappeared. No whining. No scratching at the gate. Just quiet disappointment. Imagine believing your forever family was only a few steps away... Only to watch them leave with someone else. Tonight, Daisy will curl up in the same corner she's slept in for months, waking every time she hears new visitors walk through the shelter doors. Because somewhere deep inside, she still believes the next family might finally be hers. Every shelter has dogs like Daisy. They're not asking for perfection. They're simply waiting for one person to choose them.

Wolf

17,079 просмотров • 1 месяц назад

1 Neural Network + Obsidian + Karpathy’s 1-file method = the most unhinged second brain build of 2026. It remembers everything you’ve ever done, and it costs $0 on top of what you already pay. The base is Karpathy’s append and review: 1 giant note, new thoughts stack on top, old ones sink, every few days you reread and pull the survivors back up. No folders, no tags, no plugins the rereading IS the system, because review is what turns storage into thinking. The flaw: past 10,000 lines, no human rereads anything. That’s where the neural network takes over. You keep the note in Obsidian 1 vault, everything dumps to the top: ideas, links, meeting fragments, half-thoughts. You never organize, you only dump. It all lives as plain markdown on your own disk, and that detail is the whole trick. Because now you point Claude Code at the vault folder, and it reads every line you’ve ever written. “What did I think about pricing in March.” “Find the 3 ideas I keep circling.” “What did I drop that deserves a second look.” It answers from YOUR notes, with quotes, in 15 seconds. Then once a week, 1 prompt closes the loop: read the last 7 days, surface the 5 entries worth pulling back up, flag anything that contradicts what I wrote a month ago. The model does the sinking and surfacing Karpathy did by hand, and the note stays alive instead of turning into a graveyard. Week 1 feels like nothing. Week 4 you hit the first “I already solved this in January.” Month 3 you consult your past self more than Google. Most second brains die in 11 days under 40 plugins and 200 folders. This one is 1 file and a loop, and it compounds because dumping takes 0 discipline. Notion stores what you thought. This thing argues back.
0:16

1 Neural Network + Obsidian + Karpathy’s 1-file method = the most unhinged second brain build of 2026. It remembers everything you’ve ever done, and it costs $0 on top of what you already pay. The base is Karpathy’s append and review: 1 giant note, new thoughts stack on top, old ones sink, every few days you reread and pull the survivors back up. No folders, no tags, no plugins the rereading IS the system, because review is what turns storage into thinking. The flaw: past 10,000 lines, no human rereads anything. That’s where the neural network takes over. You keep the note in Obsidian 1 vault, everything dumps to the top: ideas, links, meeting fragments, half-thoughts. You never organize, you only dump. It all lives as plain markdown on your own disk, and that detail is the whole trick. Because now you point Claude Code at the vault folder, and it reads every line you’ve ever written. “What did I think about pricing in March.” “Find the 3 ideas I keep circling.” “What did I drop that deserves a second look.” It answers from YOUR notes, with quotes, in 15 seconds. Then once a week, 1 prompt closes the loop: read the last 7 days, surface the 5 entries worth pulling back up, flag anything that contradicts what I wrote a month ago. The model does the sinking and surfacing Karpathy did by hand, and the note stays alive instead of turning into a graveyard. Week 1 feels like nothing. Week 4 you hit the first “I already solved this in January.” Month 3 you consult your past self more than Google. Most second brains die in 11 days under 40 plugins and 200 folders. This one is 1 file and a loop, and it compounds because dumping takes 0 discipline. Notion stores what you thought. This thing argues back.

West Lord

24,679 просмотров • 1 месяц назад

Claude Design is f*cking cracked for landing pages 🤯 Find any competitor's e-com lander → feed it to Claude Design w/ your brand's design system → get back a fully rebuilt version in your brand, your copy, your design. All inside Claude Design. Perfect for DTC brands and agencies who are still paying freelancers to build advertorial pages from scratch. If you're finding landers that have been running on Meta for 6+ months and want to test the same structure for your brand —> Briefing a designer, waiting a week, getting back a flat mockup, giving notes, waiting again... Claude Design eliminates the entire loop: → Use Go Full Pag to screenshot the full competitor lander → Feed it to Claude Design with your design system → Prompt it to extract the exact section structure and rebuild it for your brand → It rewrites all copy, applies your fonts, colors, and layout → Iterate section by section — send a screenshot of what you want to fix, it fixes it → Drop in your product images and founder photos as you go No designer. No back-and-forth briefs. No starting from scratch. What you get: -> Full production-ready lander built around a proven structure that's already converting on Meta -> Live elements (countdown timers, animated sections) auto-generated -> Mobile and desktop versions you can refine with plain-English prompts -> A repeatable system — new competitor, new screenshots, same pipeline I put together a full playbook breaking down the exact process — the prompts, the section-by-section editing approach, and how to set this up for any competitor lander. Want it completely for free? > Like this post > Comment "CLONE" And I'll send it over (must be following so I can DM)
0:13

Claude Design is f*cking cracked for landing pages 🤯 Find any competitor's e-com lander → feed it to Claude Design w/ your brand's design system → get back a fully rebuilt version in your brand, your copy, your design. All inside Claude Design. Perfect for DTC brands and agencies who are still paying freelancers to build advertorial pages from scratch. If you're finding landers that have been running on Meta for 6+ months and want to test the same structure for your brand —> Briefing a designer, waiting a week, getting back a flat mockup, giving notes, waiting again... Claude Design eliminates the entire loop: → Use Go Full Pag to screenshot the full competitor lander → Feed it to Claude Design with your design system → Prompt it to extract the exact section structure and rebuild it for your brand → It rewrites all copy, applies your fonts, colors, and layout → Iterate section by section — send a screenshot of what you want to fix, it fixes it → Drop in your product images and founder photos as you go No designer. No back-and-forth briefs. No starting from scratch. What you get: -> Full production-ready lander built around a proven structure that's already converting on Meta -> Live elements (countdown timers, animated sections) auto-generated -> Mobile and desktop versions you can refine with plain-English prompts -> A repeatable system — new competitor, new screenshots, same pipeline I put together a full playbook breaking down the exact process — the prompts, the section-by-section editing approach, and how to set this up for any competitor lander. Want it completely for free? > Like this post > Comment "CLONE" And I'll send it over (must be following so I can DM)

Mike Futia

37,931 просмотров • 3 месяцев назад

Good morning Oscar; I’ve been pondering on how to respond to these screenshots without context and eh; I am totally out of words. 1. Crown has been in school for EIGHT terms, you have paid for two and mostly on condition that you know where I stay, or act positive to your sexual advances or other random that fit your narrative then. Refusing to comply would mean no support. And that I was totally okay without financial support from you. 2. Don’t lie on my dad’s name like that. You almost broke my little brother’s hand fighting for crown in front of both of them. You have insulted my parents to their faces more than once and you are shocked that my dad isn’t besties with you. 3. Oscar, you paid that 1.2M after not talking to your child for a year. How are you shocked that she was in a different school and her school fees paid???? You sat in that meeting and said you are comfortable with crown in fort portal, she went to fort portal and then you got angry???😂😂 4. You can’t do the bare minimum like ask about your child’s school. You know crowns school, if you were intentional; you’d know that it is among the TOP THREE schools in fort portal. You can’t fail to consistently pay 1.2M for school fees, then refuse to pay 850,000 and then fight to pay 2.5M. How does that make sense??? 5. You have both my dad’s numbers, mom’s numbers, grand mom, aunty, twin brother. My dad told you, his home is ALWAYS open for you to visit your child. If you wanted to see your child, you would, but of course, please use me as your excuse. My family called for a meeting, you sat and agreed to terms that you couldn’t comply to thereafter and somehow I am to blame for your deadbeat tendencies?? 6. You want to have “full access” but won’t do the bare minimum to achieve that. You are angry that you showed up to my house at 10PM and no one opened? You are angry that you said “I love when you are sweet to me” because I was polite and I blue ticked you???? You are mad because I said crown needed consistency?? Be for real! 7. Crown used to call you, and you wouldn’t pick, she would reach out and never hear from you, you made crown pack a suitcase twice and wouldn’t show up and communicate. I don’t have to tell your child one single thing about you, never have, to her, you are a good person, she will make prayers for you, and ask God that one day you’ll call her, and yet, you never do that. 8. When I was still staying with crown, I welcomed you into my home, I even told you, I’ll make sure I’m not in the house when you are visiting and will come back after crowns sleeping hours. Just go, bond and do homework, put her to bed. You did that for three weeks, you then started showing up late in the night, not doing the homework, and being sexual. 9. YOU ARE A DEADBEAT FATHER!!!! The worst kind actually because you even have the audacity to try and make it look okay. I won’t be doing a back and forth with you, you are a very bad person. And No, I’m not happy that my child isn’t without her biological dad, but I’ll say this again, she is GOOD!!!! I work hard for that reason. My parents numbers will always be available if you want to visit or see her, you know my home where she is. But that said; you don’t pay school fees, you don’t offer support, you don’t check on her, you don’t pick her calls. I won’t be doing this back and forth with you, you are a deadbeat!!!! And like I told you; GO TO COURT AND HAND IN THESE SCREENSHOTS WITH THEIR CONTEXT!!! I would absolutely absolutely LOVE THAT!!!!🫱🏿‍🫲🏾🫱🏿‍🫲🏾🫱🏿‍🫲🏾🫱🏿‍🫲🏾
0:19

Good morning Oscar; I’ve been pondering on how to respond to these screenshots without context and eh; I am totally out of words. 1. Crown has been in school for EIGHT terms, you have paid for two and mostly on condition that you know where I stay, or act positive to your sexual advances or other random that fit your narrative then. Refusing to comply would mean no support. And that I was totally okay without financial support from you. 2. Don’t lie on my dad’s name like that. You almost broke my little brother’s hand fighting for crown in front of both of them. You have insulted my parents to their faces more than once and you are shocked that my dad isn’t besties with you. 3. Oscar, you paid that 1.2M after not talking to your child for a year. How are you shocked that she was in a different school and her school fees paid???? You sat in that meeting and said you are comfortable with crown in fort portal, she went to fort portal and then you got angry???😂😂 4. You can’t do the bare minimum like ask about your child’s school. You know crowns school, if you were intentional; you’d know that it is among the TOP THREE schools in fort portal. You can’t fail to consistently pay 1.2M for school fees, then refuse to pay 850,000 and then fight to pay 2.5M. How does that make sense??? 5. You have both my dad’s numbers, mom’s numbers, grand mom, aunty, twin brother. My dad told you, his home is ALWAYS open for you to visit your child. If you wanted to see your child, you would, but of course, please use me as your excuse. My family called for a meeting, you sat and agreed to terms that you couldn’t comply to thereafter and somehow I am to blame for your deadbeat tendencies?? 6. You want to have “full access” but won’t do the bare minimum to achieve that. You are angry that you showed up to my house at 10PM and no one opened? You are angry that you said “I love when you are sweet to me” because I was polite and I blue ticked you???? You are mad because I said crown needed consistency?? Be for real! 7. Crown used to call you, and you wouldn’t pick, she would reach out and never hear from you, you made crown pack a suitcase twice and wouldn’t show up and communicate. I don’t have to tell your child one single thing about you, never have, to her, you are a good person, she will make prayers for you, and ask God that one day you’ll call her, and yet, you never do that. 8. When I was still staying with crown, I welcomed you into my home, I even told you, I’ll make sure I’m not in the house when you are visiting and will come back after crowns sleeping hours. Just go, bond and do homework, put her to bed. You did that for three weeks, you then started showing up late in the night, not doing the homework, and being sexual. 9. YOU ARE A DEADBEAT FATHER!!!! The worst kind actually because you even have the audacity to try and make it look okay. I won’t be doing a back and forth with you, you are a very bad person. And No, I’m not happy that my child isn’t without her biological dad, but I’ll say this again, she is GOOD!!!! I work hard for that reason. My parents numbers will always be available if you want to visit or see her, you know my home where she is. But that said; you don’t pay school fees, you don’t offer support, you don’t check on her, you don’t pick her calls. I won’t be doing this back and forth with you, you are a deadbeat!!!! And like I told you; GO TO COURT AND HAND IN THESE SCREENSHOTS WITH THEIR CONTEXT!!! I would absolutely absolutely LOVE THAT!!!!🫱🏿‍🫲🏾🫱🏿‍🫲🏾🫱🏿‍🫲🏾🫱🏿‍🫲🏾

Misheline Mutuzo

450,362 просмотров • 1 год назад

Nobody ever fixed their skin or healed their joints with expensive creams and supplements. Let that sink in. For decades they have been shoving the same lie down our throats: "You need chemical lotions for your skin and painkillers for your joints." It is complete bullshit. Your skin and your joints are built from the exact same protein: collagen. You cannot fix internal structural damage with external chemicals. there are two things destroying your collagen right now. Seed oils (industrial lubricants). They incorporate into your cell membranes and literally oxidize. This causes age spots, wrinkles, and chronic joint inflammation. Processed sugar (carbs). Sugar binds to proteins in your bloodstream. It destroys the collagen and elastin that keep your joints lubricated and your skin tight. I lived with joint pain for years from competitive tennis. Now I haven't taken a single painkiller or used a single skincare product in 5 years. I just eat pure animal collagen and fat (like the bone broth jelly and beef patties in this video). I spend hours playing intense beach volleyball in the brutal sun with zero joint pain, zero sunburns, and perfect skin. drop the expensive chemicals and supplements. simply remove seed oils and processed sugar. prioritize fatty animal protein, natural collagen, and real whole foods. Your joint pain will disappear. Your skin inflammation will vanish. Your body will rebuild itself from the inside out. Run the experiment yourself. Most people are too scared to throw away their pills and lotions. The ones who actually do... never go back. Be honest: how much money have you wasted on skincare and joint supplements that did absolutely nothing? Beef. Eggs. Salt. Water. 🥩
0:10

Nobody ever fixed their skin or healed their joints with expensive creams and supplements. Let that sink in. For decades they have been shoving the same lie down our throats: "You need chemical lotions for your skin and painkillers for your joints." It is complete bullshit. Your skin and your joints are built from the exact same protein: collagen. You cannot fix internal structural damage with external chemicals. there are two things destroying your collagen right now. Seed oils (industrial lubricants). They incorporate into your cell membranes and literally oxidize. This causes age spots, wrinkles, and chronic joint inflammation. Processed sugar (carbs). Sugar binds to proteins in your bloodstream. It destroys the collagen and elastin that keep your joints lubricated and your skin tight. I lived with joint pain for years from competitive tennis. Now I haven't taken a single painkiller or used a single skincare product in 5 years. I just eat pure animal collagen and fat (like the bone broth jelly and beef patties in this video). I spend hours playing intense beach volleyball in the brutal sun with zero joint pain, zero sunburns, and perfect skin. drop the expensive chemicals and supplements. simply remove seed oils and processed sugar. prioritize fatty animal protein, natural collagen, and real whole foods. Your joint pain will disappear. Your skin inflammation will vanish. Your body will rebuild itself from the inside out. Run the experiment yourself. Most people are too scared to throw away their pills and lotions. The ones who actually do... never go back. Be honest: how much money have you wasted on skincare and joint supplements that did absolutely nothing? Beef. Eggs. Salt. Water. 🥩

ArnyCarnivore

11,254 просмотров • 1 месяц назад

This post about bench press safety escaped containment and got a lot of people commenting in disagreement that safeties/spotter arms would've saved him. And in truth, my language below was a little too absolute: safeties MIGHT have saved his life (though even if so, would not have prevented all damage), but it's far from certain that they would have, so I stand by the overall sentiment. I will explain in detail below. The spotter arms have to be set below the top of your arched chest or else they’ll interfere with every rep - you'll clang the bar on the safeties, which not only severely interrupts proper technique and performance, but can also be potentially injurious in its own right as the clanging against the safeties takes you out of the rhythm of the rep and leads to uneven and chaotic force application demands mid-rep. The safeties can’t be set a mere milimeter or even a half inch below the chest: both because most racks have 2-3 inch hole spacings that don't allow such finely calibrated setting, but even if they do - also because as a gross movement pattern, not a fine movement pattern, you can’t control the movement of the bar precisely and accurately enough not to clang the safeties if they’re so close to your chest. Human beings performing gross movement patterns simply lack such fine control: on heavy sets, the bar might be slightly uneven on one side, you might lose a touch of your arch over the course of the set, etc... and end up clanging the safeties anyway, if they're set so close to the top of your arched chest. These issues are not form errors that can be prevented with proper training, but are inherent limitations in the human capability to control gross motor pattern movements at a heavy weight. Thus, the safeties have to be far enough below your chest in order to not interfere with the set itself, such that they can’t possibly catch the bar before it hits your chest in the case of a sudden catastrophic drop. The proper placement for the safeties is far enough below your chest so as not to interfere with the normal execution of the set and so the bar never touches the safeties at all during the set, even with the inherent human limitations of gross motor pattern control. But high enough such tha - if you find yourself unable to successfully press the bar to lockout - you can bring the bar under control back down to your chest, exhale and drop your arch, and the bar will ideally now rest on the safeties instead of your chest and you can crawl and slither out from under it. Worst case, you can roll the bar slightly upwards and the safeties will soon take it, well before it would lie on your neck. I have an example of using the safeties this way in the video below, with 485 lbs. The ability to set this position with precision and accuracy depends on the equipment you're using: Some racks/benches have 1 inch spacings for this purpose, which is excellent and allows greater precision in safety placement, but most common racks have 2-3 inches between holes and thus people must often have the safeties a little lower than they'd ideally be. The main point is the proper use and purpose of safeties in the bench press is not really to catch a very rare catastrophic sudden drop onto your chest, but to allow you to survive the much more common situation of a normal failed rep. Could they theoretically save your life in such a situation where you drop it? Yes, they might. They won't stop the bar before it hits your chest but they might reduce the impact by stopping the bar from going further down and reducing the impact. This may or may not save your life in this rare catastrophic drop situation - it's good to have them there, set up anyway, but it's far from a sure bet. The most important things you can do are to learn and practice good technique, which involves stiff wrists in a very slightly bent back position, and thumbs around the barbell - NO SUICIDE GRIP. The safeties won't catch the bar and stop it from hitting your chest, so it's best to reduce the chances of dropping the bar on your chest from almost zero to even closer to almost zero. I've been bench pressing regularly for well over 20 years, always put my thumbs around the bar, and have never dropped it on myself. Nor has anyone I have coached to the best of my memory, over tens of thousands of sets and hundreds of thousands of reps. I have used safeties to successfully avoid getting trapped under the bar after a failed rep. In the video below, I tweaked my pec while pushing through a rep at 485 and had to set the bar on the pins to avoid getting trapped under it. This kind of situation is the primary use for the safeties. It's good to have them set up regardless - they might indeed save you if you somehow still manage to drop the bar, but they also very well might not.
0:14

This post about bench press safety escaped containment and got a lot of people commenting in disagreement that safeties/spotter arms would've saved him. And in truth, my language below was a little too absolute: safeties MIGHT have saved his life (though even if so, would not have prevented all damage), but it's far from certain that they would have, so I stand by the overall sentiment. I will explain in detail below. The spotter arms have to be set below the top of your arched chest or else they’ll interfere with every rep - you'll clang the bar on the safeties, which not only severely interrupts proper technique and performance, but can also be potentially injurious in its own right as the clanging against the safeties takes you out of the rhythm of the rep and leads to uneven and chaotic force application demands mid-rep. The safeties can’t be set a mere milimeter or even a half inch below the chest: both because most racks have 2-3 inch hole spacings that don't allow such finely calibrated setting, but even if they do - also because as a gross movement pattern, not a fine movement pattern, you can’t control the movement of the bar precisely and accurately enough not to clang the safeties if they’re so close to your chest. Human beings performing gross movement patterns simply lack such fine control: on heavy sets, the bar might be slightly uneven on one side, you might lose a touch of your arch over the course of the set, etc... and end up clanging the safeties anyway, if they're set so close to the top of your arched chest. These issues are not form errors that can be prevented with proper training, but are inherent limitations in the human capability to control gross motor pattern movements at a heavy weight. Thus, the safeties have to be far enough below your chest in order to not interfere with the set itself, such that they can’t possibly catch the bar before it hits your chest in the case of a sudden catastrophic drop. The proper placement for the safeties is far enough below your chest so as not to interfere with the normal execution of the set and so the bar never touches the safeties at all during the set, even with the inherent human limitations of gross motor pattern control. But high enough such tha - if you find yourself unable to successfully press the bar to lockout - you can bring the bar under control back down to your chest, exhale and drop your arch, and the bar will ideally now rest on the safeties instead of your chest and you can crawl and slither out from under it. Worst case, you can roll the bar slightly upwards and the safeties will soon take it, well before it would lie on your neck. I have an example of using the safeties this way in the video below, with 485 lbs. The ability to set this position with precision and accuracy depends on the equipment you're using: Some racks/benches have 1 inch spacings for this purpose, which is excellent and allows greater precision in safety placement, but most common racks have 2-3 inches between holes and thus people must often have the safeties a little lower than they'd ideally be. The main point is the proper use and purpose of safeties in the bench press is not really to catch a very rare catastrophic sudden drop onto your chest, but to allow you to survive the much more common situation of a normal failed rep. Could they theoretically save your life in such a situation where you drop it? Yes, they might. They won't stop the bar before it hits your chest but they might reduce the impact by stopping the bar from going further down and reducing the impact. This may or may not save your life in this rare catastrophic drop situation - it's good to have them there, set up anyway, but it's far from a sure bet. The most important things you can do are to learn and practice good technique, which involves stiff wrists in a very slightly bent back position, and thumbs around the barbell - NO SUICIDE GRIP. The safeties won't catch the bar and stop it from hitting your chest, so it's best to reduce the chances of dropping the bar on your chest from almost zero to even closer to almost zero. I've been bench pressing regularly for well over 20 years, always put my thumbs around the bar, and have never dropped it on myself. Nor has anyone I have coached to the best of my memory, over tens of thousands of sets and hundreds of thousands of reps. I have used safeties to successfully avoid getting trapped under the bar after a failed rep. In the video below, I tweaked my pec while pushing through a rep at 485 and had to set the bar on the pins to avoid getting trapped under it. This kind of situation is the primary use for the safeties. It's good to have them set up regardless - they might indeed save you if you somehow still manage to drop the bar, but they also very well might not.

Deep Squats, Shallow Thoughts

924,853 просмотров • 9 месяцев назад

Check check check is this thing on? First, I’d like to take a moment to provide an update, as I have an extremely busy weekend ahead covering the news, given that this could be a life-threatening tornado outbreak weather event. As many of you may have noticed, I’ve been offline from the Rawsalerts platform for the past few weeks. I took a short break from social media to focus on my health, which is my top priority. However, no one is going to stop me, and I am ready to return and post. My goal is to cover stories and breaking news, not to engage in childish internet drama about my personal life, which is private and nobody’s business. This unnecessary distraction has already taken up time and energy that cannot be recouped, and I will no longer engage in any further back-and-forth on this matter. Secondly, I want to begin by expressing my deepest gratitude to all my friends and supporters who have reached out to check on me and stood by me during this challenging time. Your unwavering support means more to me than words can convey as Your encouragement not only makes a difference but also reveals who my real fans and supporters truly are. I severely underestimated the overwhelming stress and hardship that comes with being doxxed. Let me be clear Rawsalerts has never been about me or my personal life. Its sole purpose has always been to provide fast, accurate, and continuous coverage of breaking news when it matters most. The organic following I’ve built stands as undeniable proof of the platform’s integrity and the critical role it plays in keeping people informed. My dedication to Rawsalerts remains unwavering. I have invested countless hours of time, energy, and personal sacrifices into building a platform that delivers timely, reliable information, pouring my heart into every aspect of it. If anyone chooses to focus on my personal life rather than the breaking news I share, I won’t be influenced by baseless judgments or opinions. Serious and entirely false accusations and smear campaigns have been made against me accusations that are both defamatory and without merit. These claims are currently under thorough investigation, and I am treating this matter with the utmost seriousness. Due to the ongoing legal process, I will not be disclosing further details until a resolution is reached, whether civil or criminal. Please be assured that this issue is being addressed with the highest level of attention and diligence. Through Rawsalerts, I’ve been fortunate to connect with incredibly talented individuals and build supportive, meaningful friendships on this platform. Many of them know me personally and stand by me, recognizing the positive impact this platform has had on people’s lives and understanding the real me, rather than believing baseless lies and smears, as I am in possession of the true facts, not them. Now let's get back to posting news♥️
0:15

Check check check is this thing on? First, I’d like to take a moment to provide an update, as I have an extremely busy weekend ahead covering the news, given that this could be a life-threatening tornado outbreak weather event. As many of you may have noticed, I’ve been offline from the Rawsalerts platform for the past few weeks. I took a short break from social media to focus on my health, which is my top priority. However, no one is going to stop me, and I am ready to return and post. My goal is to cover stories and breaking news, not to engage in childish internet drama about my personal life, which is private and nobody’s business. This unnecessary distraction has already taken up time and energy that cannot be recouped, and I will no longer engage in any further back-and-forth on this matter. Secondly, I want to begin by expressing my deepest gratitude to all my friends and supporters who have reached out to check on me and stood by me during this challenging time. Your unwavering support means more to me than words can convey as Your encouragement not only makes a difference but also reveals who my real fans and supporters truly are. I severely underestimated the overwhelming stress and hardship that comes with being doxxed. Let me be clear Rawsalerts has never been about me or my personal life. Its sole purpose has always been to provide fast, accurate, and continuous coverage of breaking news when it matters most. The organic following I’ve built stands as undeniable proof of the platform’s integrity and the critical role it plays in keeping people informed. My dedication to Rawsalerts remains unwavering. I have invested countless hours of time, energy, and personal sacrifices into building a platform that delivers timely, reliable information, pouring my heart into every aspect of it. If anyone chooses to focus on my personal life rather than the breaking news I share, I won’t be influenced by baseless judgments or opinions. Serious and entirely false accusations and smear campaigns have been made against me accusations that are both defamatory and without merit. These claims are currently under thorough investigation, and I am treating this matter with the utmost seriousness. Due to the ongoing legal process, I will not be disclosing further details until a resolution is reached, whether civil or criminal. Please be assured that this issue is being addressed with the highest level of attention and diligence. Through Rawsalerts, I’ve been fortunate to connect with incredibly talented individuals and build supportive, meaningful friendships on this platform. Many of them know me personally and stand by me, recognizing the positive impact this platform has had on people’s lives and understanding the real me, rather than believing baseless lies and smears, as I am in possession of the true facts, not them. Now let's get back to posting news♥️

R A W S A L E R T S

443,858 просмотров • 1 год назад

🧵 ASAP Rocky vs Drake — A DEEPER LOOK (Receipts, Not Revisionism) ASAP Rocky recently went on The Joe Budden Podcast and claimed the reason he dissed Drake on “Stole My Flow” and other songs on the (Don’t Be Dumb) project is because Drake has been “taking shots at him for years” while he stayed silent. That narrative doesn’t hold up when you look at the full history. This has been back and forth tension for nearly half a decade, with Rocky repeatedly firing first musically, visually, and symbolically and Drake responding in kind. 📌 The Real Starting Point (2021) •May 2021: ASAP Rocky & Rihanna confirm their relationship in GQ •June 2021: Rocky previews “D.M.B (Dat’s My B*tch)” in a Klarna ad •Extended version leaks shortly after •The intro and bars clearly frame Rihanna as a “prize won,” widely interpreted as a Drake sub •Video rollout goes viral with Rihanna as the love interest, doubling down on the flex September 3, 2021 •Drake drops Certified Lover Boy •Multiple bars are read as indirect responses to Rocky’s rollout September 13, 2021 •ASAP Rocky & Rihanna attend the Met Gala •Rocky wears a quilted blanket outfit, which many saw as a calculated visual jab toward Drake 2022 •Pregnancy announcement 4 months later first child is born •8 days later, Rocky officially drops the D.M.B video, once again starring Rihanna •Drake responds months later on Her Loss, continuing the subliminal exchange 📌 Escalation Era (2023) •Rihanna performs at the Super Bowl, visibly pregnant again •Shortly after: •ASAP Rocky previews “Stole My Flow” at Rolling Loud •The clip goes viral immediately •Rocky then drops “Riot”, another track interpreted as a Drake jab Drake Responds •October 6, 2023: Drake releases For All The Dogs •Tracks like “Fear of Heights” and “Another Late Night” contain clear subs •Drake even trolls Rocky’s Rolling Loud appearance by wearing colorful hair clips, mirroring Rocky’s look Rocky’s Counter •Puma x F1 partnership rollout featuring Rocky and Rihanna •Rocky positions himself as a fashion forward mogul while taking subtle cultural shots 📌 Diss Cycle Goes Public (2024) •Rocky jumps on Future & Metro Boomin’s Drake diss project •Track: “Show of Hands” •Drake fires back on “Family Matters”: “Rakim talkin’ shit again…” •Drake follows with 100 Gigs for Your Head Top •Rocky responds with “Tailor Swif” and “Hijack” •Drake answers again with: •No Face •SOD •Circadian Rhythm •Rocky doubles down with another Puma F1 campaign, leaning into optics instead of direct records 📌 Optics, Timing & Strategy (2025) •Rolling Loud: Rocky performs multiple Drake sub tracks like Helicopter •Met Gala 2025: •ASAP & Rihanna announce another pregnancy • Rocky does late night appearance with Anna wintour on Seth meyers •Rihanna drops a Smurfs soundtrack song produced by the same producer behind Drake’s “Nokia” •Lyrics hint at déjà vu 👀 Drake’s Response •Headlines Wireless Festival solo •Sends an unspoken message: I don’t need Rolling Loud or a stacked lineup •July 4, 2025: Drake drops “What Did I Miss?” •Same day: Rocky drops “Pray4DaGang” •July 25, 2025: Drake drops “Which One” viewed as a Rihanna centered response 📌 The Album Delay & Final Drop (2026) •Rocky teases Don’t Be Dumb for nearly three years •Avoids direct release windows where Drake might step on the moment •January 2026: •Rocky finally drops the album •Includes the same Drake diss tracks previewed years earlier •Then goes on podcasts claiming Drake dissed him “out of nowhere” 🎯 Final Take This wasn’t: ❌ sudden ❌ unprovoked ❌ one sided It was: ✔️ long term ✔️ strategic ✔️ mutually escalated ASAP Rocky has been sending shots through music, fashion, relationships, timing, and optics. Drake has been responding consistently and directly. That’s hip hop Trying to reframe it as“I stayed quiet and Drake attacked me”
0:19

🧵 ASAP Rocky vs Drake — A DEEPER LOOK (Receipts, Not Revisionism) ASAP Rocky recently went on The Joe Budden Podcast and claimed the reason he dissed Drake on “Stole My Flow” and other songs on the (Don’t Be Dumb) project is because Drake has been “taking shots at him for years” while he stayed silent. That narrative doesn’t hold up when you look at the full history. This has been back and forth tension for nearly half a decade, with Rocky repeatedly firing first musically, visually, and symbolically and Drake responding in kind. 📌 The Real Starting Point (2021) •May 2021: ASAP Rocky & Rihanna confirm their relationship in GQ •June 2021: Rocky previews “D.M.B (Dat’s My B*tch)” in a Klarna ad •Extended version leaks shortly after •The intro and bars clearly frame Rihanna as a “prize won,” widely interpreted as a Drake sub •Video rollout goes viral with Rihanna as the love interest, doubling down on the flex September 3, 2021 •Drake drops Certified Lover Boy •Multiple bars are read as indirect responses to Rocky’s rollout September 13, 2021 •ASAP Rocky & Rihanna attend the Met Gala •Rocky wears a quilted blanket outfit, which many saw as a calculated visual jab toward Drake 2022 •Pregnancy announcement 4 months later first child is born •8 days later, Rocky officially drops the D.M.B video, once again starring Rihanna •Drake responds months later on Her Loss, continuing the subliminal exchange 📌 Escalation Era (2023) •Rihanna performs at the Super Bowl, visibly pregnant again •Shortly after: •ASAP Rocky previews “Stole My Flow” at Rolling Loud •The clip goes viral immediately •Rocky then drops “Riot”, another track interpreted as a Drake jab Drake Responds •October 6, 2023: Drake releases For All The Dogs •Tracks like “Fear of Heights” and “Another Late Night” contain clear subs •Drake even trolls Rocky’s Rolling Loud appearance by wearing colorful hair clips, mirroring Rocky’s look Rocky’s Counter •Puma x F1 partnership rollout featuring Rocky and Rihanna •Rocky positions himself as a fashion forward mogul while taking subtle cultural shots 📌 Diss Cycle Goes Public (2024) •Rocky jumps on Future & Metro Boomin’s Drake diss project •Track: “Show of Hands” •Drake fires back on “Family Matters”: “Rakim talkin’ shit again…” •Drake follows with 100 Gigs for Your Head Top •Rocky responds with “Tailor Swif” and “Hijack” •Drake answers again with: •No Face •SOD •Circadian Rhythm •Rocky doubles down with another Puma F1 campaign, leaning into optics instead of direct records 📌 Optics, Timing & Strategy (2025) •Rolling Loud: Rocky performs multiple Drake sub tracks like Helicopter •Met Gala 2025: •ASAP & Rihanna announce another pregnancy • Rocky does late night appearance with Anna wintour on Seth meyers •Rihanna drops a Smurfs soundtrack song produced by the same producer behind Drake’s “Nokia” •Lyrics hint at déjà vu 👀 Drake’s Response •Headlines Wireless Festival solo •Sends an unspoken message: I don’t need Rolling Loud or a stacked lineup •July 4, 2025: Drake drops “What Did I Miss?” •Same day: Rocky drops “Pray4DaGang” •July 25, 2025: Drake drops “Which One” viewed as a Rihanna centered response 📌 The Album Delay & Final Drop (2026) •Rocky teases Don’t Be Dumb for nearly three years •Avoids direct release windows where Drake might step on the moment •January 2026: •Rocky finally drops the album •Includes the same Drake diss tracks previewed years earlier •Then goes on podcasts claiming Drake dissed him “out of nowhere” 🎯 Final Take This wasn’t: ❌ sudden ❌ unprovoked ❌ one sided It was: ✔️ long term ✔️ strategic ✔️ mutually escalated ASAP Rocky has been sending shots through music, fashion, relationships, timing, and optics. Drake has been responding consistently and directly. That’s hip hop Trying to reframe it as“I stayed quiet and Drake attacked me”

Cousin Tino ™️

42,850 просмотров • 7 месяцев назад

here's how you can scale to 10k/month on tiktok shop with slideshows so most affiliates are stuck doing the same thing every day. film, edit, post, make like $60-80 in commissions. and the problem isn't effort, it's that your time is the bottleneck. you can't film 15 videos a day. so your output caps and your money caps with it. meanwhile there's a guy in canada who made $18k in his first two weeks. never filmed anything. never showed his face. never even held a product. canada doesn't even support tiktok shop, he's running us tiktok from there. all slideshows. and when i say slideshows i mean 4-7 images posted like a normal tiktok with a product link attached. that's it. someone buys off it, you get paid. making one takes maybe 5% of the skill of making a video. now here's the catch. tiktok gated the feature. most accounts can't attach products to photo posts, you'll get a "product links not available in photo mode" error. some accounts randomly have it. quick way to check: open tiktok studio on desktop (has to be desktop, mobile won't work), hit upload. if you see "videos or photos" you have access. click photos, upload your images, attach the link. if you only see video upload, you're not in yet. uk and europe are getting it randomly right now, us is only top gmv creators for the moment. check every day because tiktok doesn't tell you when you get it, the option just shows up. worst case you build the system now and execute day one when your account unlocks. because the people getting random access with no clue what they're doing are posting random images and making nothing. the format is easy, that doesn't mean it's mindless. the format itself is one thing repeated over and over: pain point first, product second. slide one hits an insecurity. back acne from the gym. car turning into an oven all summer. makeup that never sits right. the person scrolling sees it and goes "wait that's literally me." middle slides twist the knife a bit more. then "so i tried this thing everyone's using," show it working, before and after, and the last slide is just the offer. sale, free shipping, link below. done. that structure sells cold traffic. people who've never seen the product buy off one slideshow because you sold the problem, not the product. and here's the part most people don't clock when they're scrolling past these: none of it is real. the guy holding the ceiling fan doesn't own a ceiling fan. the back acne was generated onto the model. the smoothies were never made. it's all ai images. which kills every excuse at once. no face, no product in hand, no waiting on shipping, no country restrictions. the workflow is dumb simple. screenshot a slideshow style you like, drop it in chatgpt, say "make me 3x4 images in this style." then describe your pain point scene. couple walking to a car that's been baking in the sun, whatever it is. then grab the product image off the tiktok listing, feed it in, "now show them using this." repeat per slide. no fancy prompts, the reference images do all the work. two small things that matter more than they should. keep everything 3:4 or the mixed sizes make the whole post look off. and don't bake text into the images, add it inside tiktok. native text looks like a person posted it. baked text looks like an ad. people can feel the difference even if they can't explain it. if you want it to look even more real, take a photo of your actual kitchen or desk and only generate the product into it. real room, ai product. nobody can tell. for ideas, don't invent anything. steal structure, swap one variable. the number one post in the uk right now is a simpsons style slideshow about linen trousers. take that exact skeleton and run it with a sports set or summer shorts instead. same format, different product, suddenly it's unsaturated again. or take viral videos and turn them into slides. one guy took a viral video about a sink drainage thing, rebuilt it as images, and beat the original with 1.7m views. first week on the platform. the biggest edge though is going backwards. pull products that went viral 2-3 months ago, take the exact hooks that already converted millions of views, and rerun them as slideshows. nobody's done them in this format because the format barely exists. you're not testing ideas, you're re-releasing proven hits. then it just comes down to volume. no filming, no editing, no product costs means each post is basically free. so post 10-15 a day. most will flop, who cares. one will do 500k views in two days and when it does you remake it 50 times and drain it. every gated feature on tiktok runs the same cycle. early access prints, wide rollout saturates, then it's just another format everyone does. slideshows are still in the first part of that cycle.
0:11

here's how you can scale to 10k/month on tiktok shop with slideshows so most affiliates are stuck doing the same thing every day. film, edit, post, make like $60-80 in commissions. and the problem isn't effort, it's that your time is the bottleneck. you can't film 15 videos a day. so your output caps and your money caps with it. meanwhile there's a guy in canada who made $18k in his first two weeks. never filmed anything. never showed his face. never even held a product. canada doesn't even support tiktok shop, he's running us tiktok from there. all slideshows. and when i say slideshows i mean 4-7 images posted like a normal tiktok with a product link attached. that's it. someone buys off it, you get paid. making one takes maybe 5% of the skill of making a video. now here's the catch. tiktok gated the feature. most accounts can't attach products to photo posts, you'll get a "product links not available in photo mode" error. some accounts randomly have it. quick way to check: open tiktok studio on desktop (has to be desktop, mobile won't work), hit upload. if you see "videos or photos" you have access. click photos, upload your images, attach the link. if you only see video upload, you're not in yet. uk and europe are getting it randomly right now, us is only top gmv creators for the moment. check every day because tiktok doesn't tell you when you get it, the option just shows up. worst case you build the system now and execute day one when your account unlocks. because the people getting random access with no clue what they're doing are posting random images and making nothing. the format is easy, that doesn't mean it's mindless. the format itself is one thing repeated over and over: pain point first, product second. slide one hits an insecurity. back acne from the gym. car turning into an oven all summer. makeup that never sits right. the person scrolling sees it and goes "wait that's literally me." middle slides twist the knife a bit more. then "so i tried this thing everyone's using," show it working, before and after, and the last slide is just the offer. sale, free shipping, link below. done. that structure sells cold traffic. people who've never seen the product buy off one slideshow because you sold the problem, not the product. and here's the part most people don't clock when they're scrolling past these: none of it is real. the guy holding the ceiling fan doesn't own a ceiling fan. the back acne was generated onto the model. the smoothies were never made. it's all ai images. which kills every excuse at once. no face, no product in hand, no waiting on shipping, no country restrictions. the workflow is dumb simple. screenshot a slideshow style you like, drop it in chatgpt, say "make me 3x4 images in this style." then describe your pain point scene. couple walking to a car that's been baking in the sun, whatever it is. then grab the product image off the tiktok listing, feed it in, "now show them using this." repeat per slide. no fancy prompts, the reference images do all the work. two small things that matter more than they should. keep everything 3:4 or the mixed sizes make the whole post look off. and don't bake text into the images, add it inside tiktok. native text looks like a person posted it. baked text looks like an ad. people can feel the difference even if they can't explain it. if you want it to look even more real, take a photo of your actual kitchen or desk and only generate the product into it. real room, ai product. nobody can tell. for ideas, don't invent anything. steal structure, swap one variable. the number one post in the uk right now is a simpsons style slideshow about linen trousers. take that exact skeleton and run it with a sports set or summer shorts instead. same format, different product, suddenly it's unsaturated again. or take viral videos and turn them into slides. one guy took a viral video about a sink drainage thing, rebuilt it as images, and beat the original with 1.7m views. first week on the platform. the biggest edge though is going backwards. pull products that went viral 2-3 months ago, take the exact hooks that already converted millions of views, and rerun them as slideshows. nobody's done them in this format because the format barely exists. you're not testing ideas, you're re-releasing proven hits. then it just comes down to volume. no filming, no editing, no product costs means each post is basically free. so post 10-15 a day. most will flop, who cares. one will do 500k views in two days and when it does you remake it 50 times and drain it. every gated feature on tiktok runs the same cycle. early access prints, wide rollout saturates, then it's just another format everyone does. slideshows are still in the first part of that cycle.

Mufasa

13,066 просмотров • 23 дней назад

A friend of mine just recently got his first gun, a striker fired Glock 19. He is terrified to leave a round chambered. To anyone reading this who has this same fear, I want to alleviate your concerns. I'm going to explain why there is nothing to be afraid of. First and foremost, I fully understand your concern. It's not irrational. And you're not stupid for being nervous about a bullet being aimed at your leg with the striker cocked back under spring tension about an 1/8 of an inch from the primer. I get it. I shared this concern when I was new to carrying. But your fear is due to a lack of understanding of the internal safety features of a modern striker fired handgun. On a properly maintained modern striker fired pistol the striker CANNOT hit the primer on the chambered round without the trigger being pulled. Can't. Not shouldn't. Can't. (If you have any good Sig P320 jokes, this is the proper place to share them) There is a block that the striker will hit and stop if it is released without the trigger being depressed. It works just like a lock and key. There is a channel in the blocker that the striker can pass through if it is in the fire position. It only goes into the fire position if the trigger is pulled which pushes the blocker into the fire position. A spring keeps the blocker firmly in the block position until then. The blocker is a solid piece of steel that won't break. And if your gun is securely in a hard sided Kydex holster nothing can move the trigger unless it is unholstered. Many guns like Glocks have a trigger safety that prevents the trigger from moving due to force of dropping. Your finger has to be on the trigger safety to move it. So the gun cannot fire unless you pull the trigger. And it's easy for you to test this safety feature to see how it works! See the video below. You can try to push the striker forward by moving that piece at the back of the slide forward. That piece is the back of the striker. Push it forward and it will stop. The tip won't come out through the breach. You see it trying to come through but it gets stuck. Now push that little button in. That is the actual blocker. When you push it in you will now be able to move the striker forward through the breach and see how it will strike the primer. You can test this easily every time you disassemble your pistol to verify it is still working. You can break this safety feature by removing the blocker or losing the spring. But if it's there it will work. (You would be the first person in firearms history who has ever lost a spring. Literally the first one. It has never happened before. 😐) But it doesn't come out as part of regular maintenance. You have to disassemble the firing assembly to get it out. That won't happen by accident. And if you do that on purpose you should do this blocker test when you reassemble it to make sure the safety feature is working. My video shows a Glock slide. All Glocks will look like this. Other brands may put the blocker in a different spot or it may be a slightly different shape. But they all (mostly) have the same design. If you test yours as demonstrated and it works like mine does, your gun WILL NOT fire without pulling the trigger. (If you just thought of another P320 joke, this is another good place to toss that out there)
0:15

A friend of mine just recently got his first gun, a striker fired Glock 19. He is terrified to leave a round chambered. To anyone reading this who has this same fear, I want to alleviate your concerns. I'm going to explain why there is nothing to be afraid of. First and foremost, I fully understand your concern. It's not irrational. And you're not stupid for being nervous about a bullet being aimed at your leg with the striker cocked back under spring tension about an 1/8 of an inch from the primer. I get it. I shared this concern when I was new to carrying. But your fear is due to a lack of understanding of the internal safety features of a modern striker fired handgun. On a properly maintained modern striker fired pistol the striker CANNOT hit the primer on the chambered round without the trigger being pulled. Can't. Not shouldn't. Can't. (If you have any good Sig P320 jokes, this is the proper place to share them) There is a block that the striker will hit and stop if it is released without the trigger being depressed. It works just like a lock and key. There is a channel in the blocker that the striker can pass through if it is in the fire position. It only goes into the fire position if the trigger is pulled which pushes the blocker into the fire position. A spring keeps the blocker firmly in the block position until then. The blocker is a solid piece of steel that won't break. And if your gun is securely in a hard sided Kydex holster nothing can move the trigger unless it is unholstered. Many guns like Glocks have a trigger safety that prevents the trigger from moving due to force of dropping. Your finger has to be on the trigger safety to move it. So the gun cannot fire unless you pull the trigger. And it's easy for you to test this safety feature to see how it works! See the video below. You can try to push the striker forward by moving that piece at the back of the slide forward. That piece is the back of the striker. Push it forward and it will stop. The tip won't come out through the breach. You see it trying to come through but it gets stuck. Now push that little button in. That is the actual blocker. When you push it in you will now be able to move the striker forward through the breach and see how it will strike the primer. You can test this easily every time you disassemble your pistol to verify it is still working. You can break this safety feature by removing the blocker or losing the spring. But if it's there it will work. (You would be the first person in firearms history who has ever lost a spring. Literally the first one. It has never happened before. 😐) But it doesn't come out as part of regular maintenance. You have to disassemble the firing assembly to get it out. That won't happen by accident. And if you do that on purpose you should do this blocker test when you reassemble it to make sure the safety feature is working. My video shows a Glock slide. All Glocks will look like this. Other brands may put the blocker in a different spot or it may be a slightly different shape. But they all (mostly) have the same design. If you test yours as demonstrated and it works like mine does, your gun WILL NOT fire without pulling the trigger. (If you just thought of another P320 joke, this is another good place to toss that out there)

Spaceballs The X Account

197,088 просмотров • 28 дней назад

Today, I heard the most wonderful and uplifting thing. Andrew Bragg gave a commitment to leave the Liberal Party if it dropped Net Zero and exited the Paris Accord. A treaty that should never have been signed. It is the shadowy figures behind Andrew Bragg, Alex Hawke and the rest of the useless Labor/Teal-“moderate”-left-faction of the Liberal Party that got the party and the country into this mess. They rolled Tony Abbott, who won a mandate, promising to scrap the carbon tax. They have betrayed that promise ever since. Our energy woes have been a long time coming. We didn’t just wake up one day in an energy poor and deindustrialised nation. We have been under sustained attack for decades, an attack that has been marshalled by the left of politics. They control Labor, they have ruined the Liberals and have overrun just about every institution in the country. It is why the business council, sounds the same as the Australia Institute, and they both sound the same as the Greens. We are a nation in a hole, and Bragg admitted as much in his interview on Insiders today. We really need more coal, because the energy transition is failing. It is worse than that, the transition has failed. It was a bad idea, just like the rest of Net Zero. Our predicament is the result of irresponsible governments across Australia. Labor and Liberal, both have set policies that destroyed coal as the backbone of our grid, as they duchessed the Green grifters around their respective states across Australia. They played along with whatever bad idea the Greens were spouting at the time. Close this facility, replace it with a windmill. No to nuclear. No to gas. Close it, shut it, and replace it with fantasy. Turnbull, Kean, Perrottet, Berejiklian, Andrews, Morrison Albanese, and all of the rest, on a unity ticket that flushed our energy future down the toilet. All because they were afraid to upset Greta Thunberg. Because they were afraid to upset a youth, that they allowed our institutions to indoctrinate into a cult of ignorance. The world is slowly pulling in a new direction. Because hard reality has chased down fantasy. They’re waking up to the monorail that is ‘green’ energy, and ripping out the tracks. The National Party spurred by One Nation have cottoned on, and the Liberals will be dragged into the modern era, kicking and screaming. There is no doubt that if they don’t drop the Net Zero cake, and all of the icing that goes with it, they will never be a party of government again. Which brings us back to Andrew Bragg. Australia would be better off if he was not pretending to oppose Labor from the Liberal benches. We need people in opposition that understand the problems we have as a nation, and how to solve them. Not people who have only ever worked in the industry of politics, sending happy snaps along the way. Bragg knows his only chance at a job in the red house is through the blue team. He knows that blue voters don’t prioritise action on climate. But he sits there wasting a space advocating against the things the people that vote for him want. So if he had any decency, he would go, today. Because with friends like Andrew Bragg, you don’t need enemies. I just want Australia back.
0:17

Today, I heard the most wonderful and uplifting thing. Andrew Bragg gave a commitment to leave the Liberal Party if it dropped Net Zero and exited the Paris Accord. A treaty that should never have been signed. It is the shadowy figures behind Andrew Bragg, Alex Hawke and the rest of the useless Labor/Teal-“moderate”-left-faction of the Liberal Party that got the party and the country into this mess. They rolled Tony Abbott, who won a mandate, promising to scrap the carbon tax. They have betrayed that promise ever since. Our energy woes have been a long time coming. We didn’t just wake up one day in an energy poor and deindustrialised nation. We have been under sustained attack for decades, an attack that has been marshalled by the left of politics. They control Labor, they have ruined the Liberals and have overrun just about every institution in the country. It is why the business council, sounds the same as the Australia Institute, and they both sound the same as the Greens. We are a nation in a hole, and Bragg admitted as much in his interview on Insiders today. We really need more coal, because the energy transition is failing. It is worse than that, the transition has failed. It was a bad idea, just like the rest of Net Zero. Our predicament is the result of irresponsible governments across Australia. Labor and Liberal, both have set policies that destroyed coal as the backbone of our grid, as they duchessed the Green grifters around their respective states across Australia. They played along with whatever bad idea the Greens were spouting at the time. Close this facility, replace it with a windmill. No to nuclear. No to gas. Close it, shut it, and replace it with fantasy. Turnbull, Kean, Perrottet, Berejiklian, Andrews, Morrison Albanese, and all of the rest, on a unity ticket that flushed our energy future down the toilet. All because they were afraid to upset Greta Thunberg. Because they were afraid to upset a youth, that they allowed our institutions to indoctrinate into a cult of ignorance. The world is slowly pulling in a new direction. Because hard reality has chased down fantasy. They’re waking up to the monorail that is ‘green’ energy, and ripping out the tracks. The National Party spurred by One Nation have cottoned on, and the Liberals will be dragged into the modern era, kicking and screaming. There is no doubt that if they don’t drop the Net Zero cake, and all of the icing that goes with it, they will never be a party of government again. Which brings us back to Andrew Bragg. Australia would be better off if he was not pretending to oppose Labor from the Liberal benches. We need people in opposition that understand the problems we have as a nation, and how to solve them. Not people who have only ever worked in the industry of politics, sending happy snaps along the way. Bragg knows his only chance at a job in the red house is through the blue team. He knows that blue voters don’t prioritise action on climate. But he sits there wasting a space advocating against the things the people that vote for him want. So if he had any decency, he would go, today. Because with friends like Andrew Bragg, you don’t need enemies. I just want Australia back.

Matthew Camenzuli

41,752 просмотров • 10 месяцев назад

What’s the Point of Elections If Judges Can Undo the Will of the People? Judicial Overreach Is Out of Control‼️ What in the world is happening to this country? We vote — we campaign — we elect leaders to MAKE and ENFORCE policy. And then what? A federal judge, appointed for life, swoops in and releases protesters who stormed a church, defies the Justice Department’s case, and throws out the will of the administration? This isn’t democracy — it’s judicial monarchy disguised in a robe. Two defendants in the Cities Church protest case — Nekima Levy Armstrong and Chauntyll Allen — were arrested by the FBI for allegedly conspiring to violate civil rights by disrupting worship. Homeland Security cited federal law protecting houses of worship from obstruction. Yet a judge decided they pose no flight risk and ordered their release under conditions like surrendering travel documents. Meanwhile prosecutors are outraged and plan appeals. Let that sink in. 🫧We elect representatives and pass laws. 🫧The Justice Department — part of the administration we put in power — brings charges. But a single judge — appointed, unelected, and unaccountable to voters — can override that, undercut enforcement, and basically rewrite policy on the bench. What’s the point of elections if judges are going to act as a super-legislature, immune to public will? This isn’t just a legal disagreement — it’s outrageous judicial activism. Judges were never meant to be political actors with veto power over the executive branch’s enforcement decisions. Yet here we are: 🫧A nationwide immigration enforcement surge is underway — the biggest in decades — because the administration campaigned on it. 🫧Yet courts keep putting restrictions on federal agents’ actions, rolling back enforcement, and now freeing protestors accused of disrupting worship. This undermines the rule of law and excuses law-breaking depending on the politics of the judge. It nullifies democratic choice. And the left wonders why people are boiling over? This is the exact definition of why Americans distrust unelected judges making policy decisions — deciding what they think the law should mean and overriding what the voters decided the law should do. If we’re going to have elections, then the results of those elections, and the decisions made by the elected branches, have to stand — not be continually sabotaged by judges with their own political agendas. Judicial overreach must stop. We deserve a government that respects the will of the people — not one where a single judge can overturn it. Time to stop. Do you agree🤫
0:15

What’s the Point of Elections If Judges Can Undo the Will of the People? Judicial Overreach Is Out of Control‼️ What in the world is happening to this country? We vote — we campaign — we elect leaders to MAKE and ENFORCE policy. And then what? A federal judge, appointed for life, swoops in and releases protesters who stormed a church, defies the Justice Department’s case, and throws out the will of the administration? This isn’t democracy — it’s judicial monarchy disguised in a robe. Two defendants in the Cities Church protest case — Nekima Levy Armstrong and Chauntyll Allen — were arrested by the FBI for allegedly conspiring to violate civil rights by disrupting worship. Homeland Security cited federal law protecting houses of worship from obstruction. Yet a judge decided they pose no flight risk and ordered their release under conditions like surrendering travel documents. Meanwhile prosecutors are outraged and plan appeals. Let that sink in. 🫧We elect representatives and pass laws. 🫧The Justice Department — part of the administration we put in power — brings charges. But a single judge — appointed, unelected, and unaccountable to voters — can override that, undercut enforcement, and basically rewrite policy on the bench. What’s the point of elections if judges are going to act as a super-legislature, immune to public will? This isn’t just a legal disagreement — it’s outrageous judicial activism. Judges were never meant to be political actors with veto power over the executive branch’s enforcement decisions. Yet here we are: 🫧A nationwide immigration enforcement surge is underway — the biggest in decades — because the administration campaigned on it. 🫧Yet courts keep putting restrictions on federal agents’ actions, rolling back enforcement, and now freeing protestors accused of disrupting worship. This undermines the rule of law and excuses law-breaking depending on the politics of the judge. It nullifies democratic choice. And the left wonders why people are boiling over? This is the exact definition of why Americans distrust unelected judges making policy decisions — deciding what they think the law should mean and overriding what the voters decided the law should do. If we’re going to have elections, then the results of those elections, and the decisions made by the elected branches, have to stand — not be continually sabotaged by judges with their own political agendas. Judicial overreach must stop. We deserve a government that respects the will of the people — not one where a single judge can overturn it. Time to stop. Do you agree🤫

Tosca Austen

28,210 просмотров • 7 месяцев назад

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.
0:10

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 просмотров • 4 месяцев назад

The Alpha Takes What's His Michael sat in the corner of their dimly lit living room like the worthless little worm he was. His hands trembled in his lap as he clutched the tiny cage locked around his shriveled dick. The chastity device had been Fiona's idea six months ago. "To remind you of your place, sweetie." And tonight it was biting into his skin harder than ever. Fiona, his gorgeous 42 year old wife, looked like pure sex incarnate. Tight black lace lingerie barely contained her heavy tits and thick ass. Her makeup was slutty and perfect. Long dark hair cascaded down her back. She was straddling Jason's lap on the couch. She ground slowly against the massive bulge in his jeans while smirking over her shoulder at her husband. "Look at him, Jason," Fiona purred. Her voice thick with lust. "My pathetic little cuck Michael. He's been begging me for weeks to let him watch a real man fuck me. Isn't that right, honey?" Michael swallowed hard. His face burned with shame. "Y yes, Fiona. Please." Jason laughed. A deep mocking chuckle as one big hand squeezed Fiona's ass hard enough to make her moan. He was everything Michael wasn't. Tall, ripped, tattooed, with a cock that made Fiona's eyes light up like a kid on Christmas. "Pathetic. Your wife has been texting me for months about how your tiny dick can't satisfy her anymore. Said she needs a real Alpha to stretch that married pussy." Fiona kissed Jason deeply. Tongues sliding. While she reached back and flipped Michael off. "Mmm, baby, his cock is so much bigger. I can already feel it throbbing against me. Michael, be a good boy and crawl over here. Take Jason's shoes off like the foot licking loser you are." Michael dropped to his hands and knees. He crawled across the carpet as his caged clit leaked uselessly. He unlaced Jason's boots. The smell of the Alpha's feet hit him like another layer of degradation. Fiona watched with a wicked grin. Her hand already stroking the huge outline of Jason's cock through his pants. "Good boy," she cooed mockingly. "Now watch how a man fucks your wife." Jason stood up. Towering over them both. He shoved Michael back into his chair with one hand. Then he ripped Fiona's lingerie down. Exposing her swollen, dripping pussy. "On your knees, slut. Show your cuck how you worship a superior cock." Fiona dropped eagerly. Yanking Jason's jeans down. His massive dick sprang free. Thick, veiny, at least nine inches and rock hard. Michael whimpered as Fiona moaned like a whore and immediately started sucking it. Sloppy and loud. Gagging herself on the length while drool ran down her chin. "Fuck, Jason. It is so much bigger than Michael's worthless nub. I love it." Michael could only stare. His own pathetic erection straining painfully against the cage as Jason face fucked his wife. Grabbing her hair and thrusting deep. "That's it, Fiona. Suck it like the cheating cumdump you are. Your husband could never make you this sloppy." After a few minutes of brutal throat fucking, Jason pulled her up and bent her over the couch right in front of Michael. Fiona's face was inches from her husband's. Eyes glazed with lust. "Kiss me while he ruins me, cuck." Michael leaned in. Tasting Jason's cock on her tongue as Jason slammed into Fiona from behind in one powerful thrust. She screamed into Michael's mouth. Pure pleasure. Jason pounded her mercilessly. His heavy balls slapping against her clit. The wet sounds of her soaked pussy filling the room. "Oh god. Yes. Fuck me harder, Jason. Michael's never made me cum like this." Fiona gasped between kisses. Her body shaking. Jason reached around and rubbed her clit. Making her squirt all over the couch while Michael watched helplessly. Tears of humiliation mixing with his pathetic arousal. "You're mine now, Fiona," Jason growled. Spanking her ass red. "This pussy belongs to me. Tell your cuck husband." "It is yours, Alpha. Michael's just my little clean up bitch from now on." She came again. Screaming. Her walls clenching around Jason's huge cock. Jason finally roared and unloaded deep inside her. Pumping rope after thick rope of hot cum into Fiona's married cunt. When he pulled out, a flood of his seed dripped from her wrecked hole onto the floor. "Clean her up, loser," Jason ordered. Shoving Michael's face between his wife's thighs. Michael dove in like the broken cuck he was. Licking and sucking Jason's thick load out of Fiona's pussy while she moaned and ground against his face. "Good boy. Swallow every drop of a real man's cum. This is your new life now." Fiona laughed breathlessly. Petting Michael's head as he ate the creampie. "Mmm, maybe next time we'll let Jason fuck my ass while you hold my hand, honey. Or invite his friends over. Would you like that, my little cuck?" Michael could only whimper "Yes, Fiona" with his mouth full of another man's cum. #taboo #milf #mommykink #cuckold #cuck
0:10

The Alpha Takes What's His Michael sat in the corner of their dimly lit living room like the worthless little worm he was. His hands trembled in his lap as he clutched the tiny cage locked around his shriveled dick. The chastity device had been Fiona's idea six months ago. "To remind you of your place, sweetie." And tonight it was biting into his skin harder than ever. Fiona, his gorgeous 42 year old wife, looked like pure sex incarnate. Tight black lace lingerie barely contained her heavy tits and thick ass. Her makeup was slutty and perfect. Long dark hair cascaded down her back. She was straddling Jason's lap on the couch. She ground slowly against the massive bulge in his jeans while smirking over her shoulder at her husband. "Look at him, Jason," Fiona purred. Her voice thick with lust. "My pathetic little cuck Michael. He's been begging me for weeks to let him watch a real man fuck me. Isn't that right, honey?" Michael swallowed hard. His face burned with shame. "Y yes, Fiona. Please." Jason laughed. A deep mocking chuckle as one big hand squeezed Fiona's ass hard enough to make her moan. He was everything Michael wasn't. Tall, ripped, tattooed, with a cock that made Fiona's eyes light up like a kid on Christmas. "Pathetic. Your wife has been texting me for months about how your tiny dick can't satisfy her anymore. Said she needs a real Alpha to stretch that married pussy." Fiona kissed Jason deeply. Tongues sliding. While she reached back and flipped Michael off. "Mmm, baby, his cock is so much bigger. I can already feel it throbbing against me. Michael, be a good boy and crawl over here. Take Jason's shoes off like the foot licking loser you are." Michael dropped to his hands and knees. He crawled across the carpet as his caged clit leaked uselessly. He unlaced Jason's boots. The smell of the Alpha's feet hit him like another layer of degradation. Fiona watched with a wicked grin. Her hand already stroking the huge outline of Jason's cock through his pants. "Good boy," she cooed mockingly. "Now watch how a man fucks your wife." Jason stood up. Towering over them both. He shoved Michael back into his chair with one hand. Then he ripped Fiona's lingerie down. Exposing her swollen, dripping pussy. "On your knees, slut. Show your cuck how you worship a superior cock." Fiona dropped eagerly. Yanking Jason's jeans down. His massive dick sprang free. Thick, veiny, at least nine inches and rock hard. Michael whimpered as Fiona moaned like a whore and immediately started sucking it. Sloppy and loud. Gagging herself on the length while drool ran down her chin. "Fuck, Jason. It is so much bigger than Michael's worthless nub. I love it." Michael could only stare. His own pathetic erection straining painfully against the cage as Jason face fucked his wife. Grabbing her hair and thrusting deep. "That's it, Fiona. Suck it like the cheating cumdump you are. Your husband could never make you this sloppy." After a few minutes of brutal throat fucking, Jason pulled her up and bent her over the couch right in front of Michael. Fiona's face was inches from her husband's. Eyes glazed with lust. "Kiss me while he ruins me, cuck." Michael leaned in. Tasting Jason's cock on her tongue as Jason slammed into Fiona from behind in one powerful thrust. She screamed into Michael's mouth. Pure pleasure. Jason pounded her mercilessly. His heavy balls slapping against her clit. The wet sounds of her soaked pussy filling the room. "Oh god. Yes. Fuck me harder, Jason. Michael's never made me cum like this." Fiona gasped between kisses. Her body shaking. Jason reached around and rubbed her clit. Making her squirt all over the couch while Michael watched helplessly. Tears of humiliation mixing with his pathetic arousal. "You're mine now, Fiona," Jason growled. Spanking her ass red. "This pussy belongs to me. Tell your cuck husband." "It is yours, Alpha. Michael's just my little clean up bitch from now on." She came again. Screaming. Her walls clenching around Jason's huge cock. Jason finally roared and unloaded deep inside her. Pumping rope after thick rope of hot cum into Fiona's married cunt. When he pulled out, a flood of his seed dripped from her wrecked hole onto the floor. "Clean her up, loser," Jason ordered. Shoving Michael's face between his wife's thighs. Michael dove in like the broken cuck he was. Licking and sucking Jason's thick load out of Fiona's pussy while she moaned and ground against his face. "Good boy. Swallow every drop of a real man's cum. This is your new life now." Fiona laughed breathlessly. Petting Michael's head as he ate the creampie. "Mmm, maybe next time we'll let Jason fuck my ass while you hold my hand, honey. Or invite his friends over. Would you like that, my little cuck?" Michael could only whimper "Yes, Fiona" with his mouth full of another man's cum. #taboo #milf #mommykink #cuckold #cuck

Fiona Fawndles

30,051 просмотров • 3 месяцев назад

Seedance 2.0 on Higgsfield AI The quality and creative control here are incredible. This feels much closer to real music video production than ever before. Full open-sourced prompts & assets below: @ Image1 is the lead performer — preserve her exact identity in every shot: cornrow braids, septum ring, statement earrings, sculptural glossy white wrapped top, dark indigo denim. @ Audio1 is the music track — entire edit cut to it; no invented music, no voiceover, no lip-sync. Music-video route: dance/performance, brutalist stage show. Track: industrial hip-hop, 95 BPM half-time, distorted 808s, luxury-noir. Director thesis: architecture as choreography — dancers staged on concrete plinths at different heights, a human sculpture garden that activates around the lead. Visual world: brutalist concrete atrium with massive raw concrete plinths and steps at staggered heights, shafts of cold daylight from a skylight, dust motes in the light shafts, dark shadow pockets. Background dancers: 6 dancers in oatmeal and bone-toned knitwear and tailoring, sculptural silhouettes, like museum figures. Palette: bone, oatmeal, concrete grey, deep indigo accent on the lead. No neon, no particles beyond natural dust. Cut map synced to @ Audio1: 0.0–2.0s THE BREATH — static ultra-wide symmetrical: six dancers frozen in sculptural poses on six plinths at different heights, the lead standing on the floor at center like a visitor. Total stillness, museum silence. 2.0s THE DROP — 808 kick: every statue snaps into a new pose simultaneously on the hit, heads turning to her; hard cut to a fast push-in on the lead. 2.0–4.0s she struts between the plinths, camera tracking laterally through foreground columns creating parallax wipes; on each kick one statue above her snaps a new angular pose. 4.0s snare — whip-pan: full freeze, she hits a profile vogue arm frame between two plinths, statues frozen mid-rotation above. 4.0–8.0s sculpture canon: her sharp head isolations and New Way vogue lines on the snares trigger cascading pose-changes across the plinths, a mechanical wave of bodies jumping pose to pose like stop-motion statues; torso rolls on the 808 slides travel up the plinth heights from low to high. Camera slowly cranes upward through the atrium. 8.0s hi-hat triple roll — 3 rapid macro inserts: her earring in a light shaft, a dancer's hand rotating on a plinth edge, dust exploding off concrete as a boot lands. 8.5–12.0s escalation: accelerating orbital-crane move spiraling around the whole sculpture garden as all six dancers now move continuously in their own orbits on the plinths, her arm work at the center speeding up; speed-ramp stretch then snap back on the kick. 12.0s bass slide — the dancers step down off the plinths in unison and sink into deep lunges around her as she glides through a sideways level drop, camera dutch and low across the floor. 13.5–15.0s FINAL BUTTON — hard cut to the opening ultra-wide: she now stands ON the tallest central plinth in a frozen vogue pose one arm high, the six dancers frozen as statues on the floor below looking up; micro push-in, hold. Loopable. Performance rules: lead stoic, dominant; dancers precise, sculptural, expressionless. Continuity: same seven people, same wardrobe, same atrium. Audio intent: every cut and pose-snap on a hit of @ Audio1; faint foley only (steps, fabric, room tone). Quality bar: expensive editorial music video, museum-grade art direction, no AI gloss, no glow.
0:15

Seedance 2.0 on Higgsfield AI The quality and creative control here are incredible. This feels much closer to real music video production than ever before. Full open-sourced prompts & assets below: @ Image1 is the lead performer — preserve her exact identity in every shot: cornrow braids, septum ring, statement earrings, sculptural glossy white wrapped top, dark indigo denim. @ Audio1 is the music track — entire edit cut to it; no invented music, no voiceover, no lip-sync. Music-video route: dance/performance, brutalist stage show. Track: industrial hip-hop, 95 BPM half-time, distorted 808s, luxury-noir. Director thesis: architecture as choreography — dancers staged on concrete plinths at different heights, a human sculpture garden that activates around the lead. Visual world: brutalist concrete atrium with massive raw concrete plinths and steps at staggered heights, shafts of cold daylight from a skylight, dust motes in the light shafts, dark shadow pockets. Background dancers: 6 dancers in oatmeal and bone-toned knitwear and tailoring, sculptural silhouettes, like museum figures. Palette: bone, oatmeal, concrete grey, deep indigo accent on the lead. No neon, no particles beyond natural dust. Cut map synced to @ Audio1: 0.0–2.0s THE BREATH — static ultra-wide symmetrical: six dancers frozen in sculptural poses on six plinths at different heights, the lead standing on the floor at center like a visitor. Total stillness, museum silence. 2.0s THE DROP — 808 kick: every statue snaps into a new pose simultaneously on the hit, heads turning to her; hard cut to a fast push-in on the lead. 2.0–4.0s she struts between the plinths, camera tracking laterally through foreground columns creating parallax wipes; on each kick one statue above her snaps a new angular pose. 4.0s snare — whip-pan: full freeze, she hits a profile vogue arm frame between two plinths, statues frozen mid-rotation above. 4.0–8.0s sculpture canon: her sharp head isolations and New Way vogue lines on the snares trigger cascading pose-changes across the plinths, a mechanical wave of bodies jumping pose to pose like stop-motion statues; torso rolls on the 808 slides travel up the plinth heights from low to high. Camera slowly cranes upward through the atrium. 8.0s hi-hat triple roll — 3 rapid macro inserts: her earring in a light shaft, a dancer's hand rotating on a plinth edge, dust exploding off concrete as a boot lands. 8.5–12.0s escalation: accelerating orbital-crane move spiraling around the whole sculpture garden as all six dancers now move continuously in their own orbits on the plinths, her arm work at the center speeding up; speed-ramp stretch then snap back on the kick. 12.0s bass slide — the dancers step down off the plinths in unison and sink into deep lunges around her as she glides through a sideways level drop, camera dutch and low across the floor. 13.5–15.0s FINAL BUTTON — hard cut to the opening ultra-wide: she now stands ON the tallest central plinth in a frozen vogue pose one arm high, the six dancers frozen as statues on the floor below looking up; micro push-in, hold. Loopable. Performance rules: lead stoic, dominant; dancers precise, sculptural, expressionless. Continuity: same seven people, same wardrobe, same atrium. Audio intent: every cut and pose-snap on a hit of @ Audio1; faint foley only (steps, fabric, room tone). Quality bar: expensive editorial music video, museum-grade art direction, no AI gloss, no glow.

Zara

27,849 просмотров • 1 месяц назад

Schrödinger's Box — The experiment In 1935, Schrödinger proposed the cat as a complaint. A particle in superposition was tolerable; wire it to a vial of acid and a cat, and the absurdity was supposed to be obvious — a joke about taking quantum mechanics too literally. History kept the box and threw away the punchline. Ninety years later the cat is the most famous animal in physics, remembered as a question with exactly two answers: alive or dead. In June, Oxford took the framing apart. Saner et al., Phys. Rev. X 16, 021049: a single trapped strontium ion, sculpted by mid-circuit measurement into superpositions whose components are squeezed, trisqueezed, quadsqueezed — states with no classical counterpart at all. Sixfold symmetry in the Wigner function. Negativity confirmed. Not two answers. Not answers that even resemble the classical world. The building of the box in superposition physics Schrödinger's Box is a live phase-space experiment in the browser. A cat state you can sculpt, and an instrument honest enough to check. The physics, specifically: 1 — The state is real. An equal superposition of N coherent states on a ring in phase space, |ψ⟩ = 𝒩·S(r)·Σₖ|α·e^(i(2πk/N+φ))⟩. Every readout on the site is computed from this state vector, every frame. Nothing is typed in. 2 — The interference is the point. The Wigner function is evaluated on a 96×96 grid with all cross terms kept. Those cross terms are the fringes between the lobes — drop them and you have an ordinary mixture, a cat that is merely either. Where W goes negative, no classical probability distribution can follow. That negativity is the certificate of superposition: for a two-lobe cat ours converges to 0.3175 against the textbook 1/π ≈ 0.318. 3 — Measurement is done honestly. Pressing OBSERVE draws one sample from the marginal P(x) = ∫W dp — the actual Born rule, not a coin flip wearing its costume. Repeat it and your histogram converges to the distribution it came from. We test this on every load with a Kolmogorov–Smirnov statistic; the error shrinks as n^(−1/2), as the Dvoretzky–Kiefer–Wolfowitz inequality demands. 4 — Decoherence is watchable. Coherences decay by the photon-loss form, e^(−0.15κ·|αⱼ−αₖ|²): distant branches lose their fringes first. Push κ and watch the betweenness die while the lobes survive. That is why real cats don't superpose — and you can watch the negativity fall to zero as it happens. 5 — The numbers check out to machine precision. The study log runs six numerical experiments against published theory on every page load, reproducible from a seed. Wehrl entropy of the coherent reference: 1 + ln π, matched to 8×10⁻¹⁴. Entropy excess: exactly ln N until the lobes physically overlap. Sub-Planck fringe scaling: exponent 0.955 against Zurek's predicted 1. And one honest null: the Mandel Q parameter comes out ≈ 0 — the standard photon-statistics test is blind to this kind of non-classicality, which is exactly why negativity, not Q, is the witness. The thesis: The binary was never in the physics — it was an assumption we packed into the box in 1935 and never took back out. Superposition doesn't mean two options. It means the space between classical outcomes is inhabited, and its occupants owe the classical world nothing. The simulation The whole repo is open sourced to welcome any challenges to its limitations in physics.
0:12

Schrödinger's Box — The experiment In 1935, Schrödinger proposed the cat as a complaint. A particle in superposition was tolerable; wire it to a vial of acid and a cat, and the absurdity was supposed to be obvious — a joke about taking quantum mechanics too literally. History kept the box and threw away the punchline. Ninety years later the cat is the most famous animal in physics, remembered as a question with exactly two answers: alive or dead. In June, Oxford took the framing apart. Saner et al., Phys. Rev. X 16, 021049: a single trapped strontium ion, sculpted by mid-circuit measurement into superpositions whose components are squeezed, trisqueezed, quadsqueezed — states with no classical counterpart at all. Sixfold symmetry in the Wigner function. Negativity confirmed. Not two answers. Not answers that even resemble the classical world. The building of the box in superposition physics Schrödinger's Box is a live phase-space experiment in the browser. A cat state you can sculpt, and an instrument honest enough to check. The physics, specifically: 1 — The state is real. An equal superposition of N coherent states on a ring in phase space, |ψ⟩ = 𝒩·S(r)·Σₖ|α·e^(i(2πk/N+φ))⟩. Every readout on the site is computed from this state vector, every frame. Nothing is typed in. 2 — The interference is the point. The Wigner function is evaluated on a 96×96 grid with all cross terms kept. Those cross terms are the fringes between the lobes — drop them and you have an ordinary mixture, a cat that is merely either. Where W goes negative, no classical probability distribution can follow. That negativity is the certificate of superposition: for a two-lobe cat ours converges to 0.3175 against the textbook 1/π ≈ 0.318. 3 — Measurement is done honestly. Pressing OBSERVE draws one sample from the marginal P(x) = ∫W dp — the actual Born rule, not a coin flip wearing its costume. Repeat it and your histogram converges to the distribution it came from. We test this on every load with a Kolmogorov–Smirnov statistic; the error shrinks as n^(−1/2), as the Dvoretzky–Kiefer–Wolfowitz inequality demands. 4 — Decoherence is watchable. Coherences decay by the photon-loss form, e^(−0.15κ·|αⱼ−αₖ|²): distant branches lose their fringes first. Push κ and watch the betweenness die while the lobes survive. That is why real cats don't superpose — and you can watch the negativity fall to zero as it happens. 5 — The numbers check out to machine precision. The study log runs six numerical experiments against published theory on every page load, reproducible from a seed. Wehrl entropy of the coherent reference: 1 + ln π, matched to 8×10⁻¹⁴. Entropy excess: exactly ln N until the lobes physically overlap. Sub-Planck fringe scaling: exponent 0.955 against Zurek's predicted 1. And one honest null: the Mandel Q parameter comes out ≈ 0 — the standard photon-statistics test is blind to this kind of non-classicality, which is exactly why negativity, not Q, is the witness. The thesis: The binary was never in the physics — it was an assumption we packed into the box in 1935 and never took back out. Superposition doesn't mean two options. It means the space between classical outcomes is inhabited, and its occupants owe the classical world nothing. The simulation The whole repo is open sourced to welcome any challenges to its limitations in physics.

Osman Technologies

127,625 просмотров • 11 дней назад

🙏♥️🙏 Back in 1952, a baby was born at a hospital in New York. The room went dead silent. The infant was blue, limp, and silent. Panic began to settle over the medical staff, and for a terrifying moment, it looked like they might give up. Then, a steady, calm voice cut through the tension. «Let's score the baby,» the woman commanded. That woman was Dr. Virginia Apgar. That single, simple instruction changed the course of modern medicine forever. Virginia Apgar's path wasn't easy. She originally wanted to be a surgeon, but in the 1940s, the doors to operating rooms were firmly shut against women. She was told plainly that no hospital would hire a woman as a surgeon. Many people would have quit right there, but Apgar simply shifted her focus. She moved into the field of anesthesiology. It was a career pivot that would eventually save millions of lives. While working in the maternity ward at Columbia-Presbyterian, Apgar watched something that broke her heart. She saw newborn babies dying within minutes of birth because doctors didn't have a standardized way to check if they were healthy or in distress. It was all guesswork. There was no system, no set of rules, and no shared language among the staff. One morning in 1952, Apgar decided to solve the problem herself. She sat down with a piece of paper and a pen. She developed a simple, five-point test to evaluate a newborn's health based on heart rate, respiration, muscle tone, reflexes, and skin color. She called it the "Apgar Score." The medical community didn't just accept it; they embraced it. Within a decade, nearly every hospital in the United States had adopted her method. Because doctors finally had a universal language to assess a newborn's health, they knew exactly when to intervene. The infant mortality rate plummeted. Infants who might have been left for dead in the past were suddenly being resuscitated and kept alive. Virginia Apgar didn't stop with that one test. She went on to get a degree in Public Health and worked tirelessly with the March of Dimes, becoming a global advocate for mothers and their children. She spent her life breaking barriers, not by shouting, but by being the most capable person in the room. Because doctors finally had a universal language to assess a newborn's health, they knew exactly when to intervene. The infant mortality rate plummeted—studies have estimated that the implementation of standardized neonatal assessments contributed to a significant decline in neonatal deaths, with some regions seeing mortality rates for high-risk infants drop by as much as 40 to 50 percent in the years following its adoption. Infants who might have been left for dead in the past were suddenly being resuscitated and kept alive. When people asked her how she managed to thrive in a world that didn't want her there, she would offer a small, knowing smile. She once explained her resilience by saying: «Women are like tea bags—you never know how strong they are until they're in hot water.» Dr. Virginia Apgar passed away in 1974, but her work remains invisible yet essential. Every two seconds, somewhere on this planet, a baby takes its first breath. In that moment, a doctor or a nurse silently calculates a score. That number is a tribute to a woman who refused to give up—not on the babies, and certainly not on herself. vision, and a refusal to back down can rewrite the future. She taught us that your circumstances don't define your impact; your actions do. Most people will never know the name of the woman behind the score they receive at birth. But every life she helped save is living proof that you don't need fame to be a hero—you just need to leave the world better than you found it 🙏♥️🙏
0:18

🙏♥️🙏 Back in 1952, a baby was born at a hospital in New York. The room went dead silent. The infant was blue, limp, and silent. Panic began to settle over the medical staff, and for a terrifying moment, it looked like they might give up. Then, a steady, calm voice cut through the tension. «Let's score the baby,» the woman commanded. That woman was Dr. Virginia Apgar. That single, simple instruction changed the course of modern medicine forever. Virginia Apgar's path wasn't easy. She originally wanted to be a surgeon, but in the 1940s, the doors to operating rooms were firmly shut against women. She was told plainly that no hospital would hire a woman as a surgeon. Many people would have quit right there, but Apgar simply shifted her focus. She moved into the field of anesthesiology. It was a career pivot that would eventually save millions of lives. While working in the maternity ward at Columbia-Presbyterian, Apgar watched something that broke her heart. She saw newborn babies dying within minutes of birth because doctors didn't have a standardized way to check if they were healthy or in distress. It was all guesswork. There was no system, no set of rules, and no shared language among the staff. One morning in 1952, Apgar decided to solve the problem herself. She sat down with a piece of paper and a pen. She developed a simple, five-point test to evaluate a newborn's health based on heart rate, respiration, muscle tone, reflexes, and skin color. She called it the "Apgar Score." The medical community didn't just accept it; they embraced it. Within a decade, nearly every hospital in the United States had adopted her method. Because doctors finally had a universal language to assess a newborn's health, they knew exactly when to intervene. The infant mortality rate plummeted. Infants who might have been left for dead in the past were suddenly being resuscitated and kept alive. Virginia Apgar didn't stop with that one test. She went on to get a degree in Public Health and worked tirelessly with the March of Dimes, becoming a global advocate for mothers and their children. She spent her life breaking barriers, not by shouting, but by being the most capable person in the room. Because doctors finally had a universal language to assess a newborn's health, they knew exactly when to intervene. The infant mortality rate plummeted—studies have estimated that the implementation of standardized neonatal assessments contributed to a significant decline in neonatal deaths, with some regions seeing mortality rates for high-risk infants drop by as much as 40 to 50 percent in the years following its adoption. Infants who might have been left for dead in the past were suddenly being resuscitated and kept alive. When people asked her how she managed to thrive in a world that didn't want her there, she would offer a small, knowing smile. She once explained her resilience by saying: «Women are like tea bags—you never know how strong they are until they're in hot water.» Dr. Virginia Apgar passed away in 1974, but her work remains invisible yet essential. Every two seconds, somewhere on this planet, a baby takes its first breath. In that moment, a doctor or a nurse silently calculates a score. That number is a tribute to a woman who refused to give up—not on the babies, and certainly not on herself. vision, and a refusal to back down can rewrite the future. She taught us that your circumstances don't define your impact; your actions do. Most people will never know the name of the woman behind the score they receive at birth. But every life she helped save is living proof that you don't need fame to be a hero—you just need to leave the world better than you found it 🙏♥️🙏

G-PA

22,361 просмотров • 5 месяцев назад

The apartment across the courtyard had been empty for nearly a week before anyone noticed the dog. Moving trucks had come and gone over the weekend. Furniture disappeared. The lights stayed off. Management assumed the tenants had simply finished their lease. But every evening, just after sunset, a small white-and-tan Jack Russell Terrier would appear outside the apartment door. He never wandered far. He would lie on the worn welcome mat for hours, lifting his head every time footsteps echoed down the hallway. Whenever the elevator doors opened, his tail would twitch with hope before slowly falling again as another stranger walked past. Most neighbors thought someone would come back for him. No one did. By the fifth day, his bark had changed. It wasn't loud or aggressive. It was quiet, almost pleading, as though he believed if he called often enough, the people he loved might hear him. I couldn't stop thinking about him. Each morning before work, he was there. Each night when I came home, he was still waiting. A maintenance worker finally confirmed what everyone had begun to suspect. The previous tenants had left without taking the dog. No emergency contact. No forwarding address. Nothing. That evening, I carried a bowl of fresh water into the hallway. The little dog didn't move toward it. He simply stared at the apartment door. I placed a blanket nearby and sat several feet away, saying nothing. Nearly an hour passed before he cautiously walked over, drank a few mouthfuls of water, then returned to the same spot outside the empty apartment. The next morning, heavy rain swept through the city. Water blew into the open-air corridor, soaking the doormat where he had spent every night. I couldn't leave him there any longer. When I gently reached toward him, he didn't resist. He was lighter than I expected. Far too light. Inside my apartment, he immediately searched every room before curling into the corner beside my bookshelf. He ignored the expensive dog food I bought that afternoon. He ignored treats. He ignored toys. Even when I sat beside him, he kept his eyes fixed on the front door, listening for footsteps that never came. The veterinarian examined him the following day. Physically, he wasn't seriously ill. He was dehydrated, underweight, and carrying several untreated ear infections, but none of it explained why he refused to eat. The veterinarian sighed softly. "His body can recover," she told me. "It's his heart I'm worried about." She explained that some dogs experience profound emotional distress after sudden separation from the people they've bonded with. They stop eating, withdraw from interaction, and seem to lose interest in everything around them. Healing takes patience. Not days. Sometimes weeks. So I changed my routine. Instead of trying to convince him to play, I simply shared the room with him. While reading, I sat on the floor nearby. While working on my laptop, I left it beside his blanket. At night, I spoke quietly to him about completely ordinary things, not because I thought he understood every word, but because silence had probably become frightening. For nearly a week, nothing seemed different. Then one morning, as I prepared breakfast, I noticed him watching me from the hallway instead of hiding. It wasn't much. But it was the first time he'd shown curiosity. Later that afternoon, when I walked into another room, I heard the faint clicking of little paws behind me. He had followed. Only a few steps. Then he stopped. The following evening, I offered him a small piece of boiled chicken. Instead of turning away, he sniffed it carefully before taking the tiniest bite. I smiled so hard my face hurt. It wasn't about the food. It was the decision behind it. For the first time since I'd met him, he had chosen tomorrow. Little victories followed. He started greeting me at the door after work. He discovered that tennis balls were worth chasing. He claimed the sunny patch beside the living room window as his favorite afternoon nap spot. One night, while I watched television, I felt something warm against my leg. He had quietly climbed onto the couch and rested his head against me. No hesitation. No fear. Just trust. The veterinarian noticed the change immediately during his next checkup. "Look at him now," she said, smiling as his tail wagged across the exam room floor. "That's a completely different little dog." I decided to call him Chance. Not because life had given him a second chance. Because he had given one to me as well. It's been almost a year now. Every evening, he still walks to the apartment door before bedtime. He stands there for a few seconds, listening to the quiet hallway. Then he turns around, trots back into our home, curls up beside me, and falls asleep without looking back. Sometimes healing isn't about forgetting where you've been. Sometimes it's simply discovering that someone stayed long enough to help you believe in home again.
0:16

The apartment across the courtyard had been empty for nearly a week before anyone noticed the dog. Moving trucks had come and gone over the weekend. Furniture disappeared. The lights stayed off. Management assumed the tenants had simply finished their lease. But every evening, just after sunset, a small white-and-tan Jack Russell Terrier would appear outside the apartment door. He never wandered far. He would lie on the worn welcome mat for hours, lifting his head every time footsteps echoed down the hallway. Whenever the elevator doors opened, his tail would twitch with hope before slowly falling again as another stranger walked past. Most neighbors thought someone would come back for him. No one did. By the fifth day, his bark had changed. It wasn't loud or aggressive. It was quiet, almost pleading, as though he believed if he called often enough, the people he loved might hear him. I couldn't stop thinking about him. Each morning before work, he was there. Each night when I came home, he was still waiting. A maintenance worker finally confirmed what everyone had begun to suspect. The previous tenants had left without taking the dog. No emergency contact. No forwarding address. Nothing. That evening, I carried a bowl of fresh water into the hallway. The little dog didn't move toward it. He simply stared at the apartment door. I placed a blanket nearby and sat several feet away, saying nothing. Nearly an hour passed before he cautiously walked over, drank a few mouthfuls of water, then returned to the same spot outside the empty apartment. The next morning, heavy rain swept through the city. Water blew into the open-air corridor, soaking the doormat where he had spent every night. I couldn't leave him there any longer. When I gently reached toward him, he didn't resist. He was lighter than I expected. Far too light. Inside my apartment, he immediately searched every room before curling into the corner beside my bookshelf. He ignored the expensive dog food I bought that afternoon. He ignored treats. He ignored toys. Even when I sat beside him, he kept his eyes fixed on the front door, listening for footsteps that never came. The veterinarian examined him the following day. Physically, he wasn't seriously ill. He was dehydrated, underweight, and carrying several untreated ear infections, but none of it explained why he refused to eat. The veterinarian sighed softly. "His body can recover," she told me. "It's his heart I'm worried about." She explained that some dogs experience profound emotional distress after sudden separation from the people they've bonded with. They stop eating, withdraw from interaction, and seem to lose interest in everything around them. Healing takes patience. Not days. Sometimes weeks. So I changed my routine. Instead of trying to convince him to play, I simply shared the room with him. While reading, I sat on the floor nearby. While working on my laptop, I left it beside his blanket. At night, I spoke quietly to him about completely ordinary things, not because I thought he understood every word, but because silence had probably become frightening. For nearly a week, nothing seemed different. Then one morning, as I prepared breakfast, I noticed him watching me from the hallway instead of hiding. It wasn't much. But it was the first time he'd shown curiosity. Later that afternoon, when I walked into another room, I heard the faint clicking of little paws behind me. He had followed. Only a few steps. Then he stopped. The following evening, I offered him a small piece of boiled chicken. Instead of turning away, he sniffed it carefully before taking the tiniest bite. I smiled so hard my face hurt. It wasn't about the food. It was the decision behind it. For the first time since I'd met him, he had chosen tomorrow. Little victories followed. He started greeting me at the door after work. He discovered that tennis balls were worth chasing. He claimed the sunny patch beside the living room window as his favorite afternoon nap spot. One night, while I watched television, I felt something warm against my leg. He had quietly climbed onto the couch and rested his head against me. No hesitation. No fear. Just trust. The veterinarian noticed the change immediately during his next checkup. "Look at him now," she said, smiling as his tail wagged across the exam room floor. "That's a completely different little dog." I decided to call him Chance. Not because life had given him a second chance. Because he had given one to me as well. It's been almost a year now. Every evening, he still walks to the apartment door before bedtime. He stands there for a few seconds, listening to the quiet hallway. Then he turns around, trots back into our home, curls up beside me, and falls asleep without looking back. Sometimes healing isn't about forgetting where you've been. Sometimes it's simply discovering that someone stayed long enough to help you believe in home again.

Crazy Moments

41,286 просмотров • 2 месяцев назад

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!
0:10

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

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